


Aurora Run

by TheBoneWitch



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Fluff, Gambling, Gay, Healing, Hired gun, Hydra, Kid Fic, LGBTQ, M/M, Old West, Peggy is a baby, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism (Slavery mentioned), Peter is a dog, Pioneer Steve, Romance, Secrets, Slow Burn, Stucky - Freeform, The year 1850, Thor is a horse, Touch-Starved, Winter Soldier - Freeform, cliches, farm life, small town
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:15:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 34
Words: 80,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22537630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBoneWitch/pseuds/TheBoneWitch
Summary: Aurora Run is a fresh start for James.Fleeing from New Orleans, he takes the Mississippi north until he stumbles into the small Illinois town of Aurora Run.Exhausted out of his mind, he looks for a job. Anything would be better than what he had to endure in New Orleans.A man on the outskirts of town needs help tending his farm and newly orphaned niece.James just needs to hold still for a moment, to stop running from everyone and everything until he can catch his breath.And this little town is exactly the sort of place to do this.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 166
Kudos: 151





	1. Small town, Big opportunities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The town was a pale shade in comparison to the bustling New Orleans he had left weeks ago, but that was the point. If he had wanted another New Orleans, he would have stayed.

James slapped the money into the expectant hands of the deck manager. He didn't have much money left. Less than a dollar jingled in the bottom of his coin bag, and he hunched the bag on his shoulders higher up.

James walked off the riverboat, pretending like he knew what he was doing. He had known paying for passage halfway up the Mississippi would have been more money than he could rationalize spending, but the decision was already made.

"Welcome to Aurora Run, the finest little town you'll find on the sumptuous American Nile!" Crowed a mustachioed man in a tweed suit. James ducked out of his sight. He had seen dozens of these dock-rat tour guides, always ready to gobble up the coin that was tossed in their direction for a tour of the town. For a novice traveler, it was easy to get sucked up in these scams, willingly emptying purses for sub-par services.

The farther north they had journeyed on that damned riverboat, the colder it had been, but the bugs didn't get any smaller.

James swatted at a mosquito that landed on his arm and took stock of the town in front of him.

From what the rat on the docks had said, the town was called Aurora Run, and the helmsman on the boat had declared two days before that they were running along the banks of Illinois state. James hadn't really planned on coming this far north, but at the same time, he didn't have a plan. A sharp, throbbing pain echoed in his left arm, reminding him of why he left

The city sprawled out in all directions, a bit sparser than he was expecting. Clapboard siding was on all of the houses and stores, the central point of the town was the big white church. James had been anticipating that too. He could smell the heat of the blacksmith forge and could hear the livery stables. The town was a pale shade in comparison to the bustling New Orleans he had left weeks ago, but that was the point. If he had wanted another New Orleans, he would have stayed.

Hitching his bag higher up on his back, he made his way up the small hill into the town. Few horses were fastened to the posts; most people preferred walking down the dirt streets, unhurried in a way James had never seen.

He carefully plotted himself a mental map of the shockingly green town, carefully remembering where the sheriff's station was, and the only saloon. No day drinkers were tumbling out of the tavern, spilled across the street in their own mess, and James took that as a sign.

Fatigue dragged at his body, making every movement in his body delayed. The river guide had been hours late on his estimation of their arrival. The day was well into the afternoon, maybe three hours of sunlight left.

All of this meant that James had to find a place to stay, for close to nothing, but something caught his eye first.

_ 'HAPPY'S GENERAL STORE'  _ was a brown, two-story clapboard building that was positively overflowing with merchandise.

If this place was even a little bit like New Orleans, this shop keeper knew the town better than anyone.  _ Except  _ maybe the madames at the saloon.

Even this close to the river, the air was sweeter here somehow. Maybe it was because he had yet to see a single orphan begging on the street or a slave in a field.

A small bell rang as he opened the door, stepping onto the swept plank floors. Floor to ceiling and wall to wall, there were rows upon rows of shelves tightly packed with everything James could ever dream. The small store was dark and smelled like damp wood and leather, and dog.

James glanced down at the ancient, wrinkled bulldog lounging on a blanket behind the counter. She barely spared him a crosseyed glance before going back to sleep.

"No worries, Friday," a slightly amused man said from behind the crowded counter, raising an eyebrow at the dog. "I've got this one,"

The dog grunted.

"Hello stranger," he welcomed, fixing James with a kind smile. "You come off the boat from the Mississippi?"

"Yes sir," James nodded, unable to take in everything on the counter at once. He was viciously jealous of the dog napping on the floor.

"I'm Happy Hogan, owner of Happy's General Store,"

"James Barnes," he replied, nodding politely at him.

"Where'd you start your journey?" The middle-aged man asked, clearly happy for some company.

"New Orleans," James replied, caught in the bug-eyed stare of a mounted rabbit by the cash register.

"You don't say?" The man asked, surprised. "New Orleans? What could our little village offer that New Orleans doesn't have?"

For the first time, James leveled his eyes with the grocer. He looked kind, soft around the middle and friendly. James desperately missed friendly people.

"The quiet," he offered. The man smiled.

"Yessir, we have plenty of that."

James offered him a tepid smile back. His arm  _ throbbed _ .

"You wouldn't mind if I ask you some questions about the town, would you?" James asked, acutely aware of how different his accent was compared to Happy's.

"No son, I wouldn't mind at all,"

"I'll be needing a job, seeing as I have enough money for maybe three nights stay at the worst institution you have here,"

Happy cracked a smile.

"Oh, I am sure Mrs. Violet would love to cut that right in half with a night with one of her charming girls," he wiggled his eyebrows, and James couldn't help but grimace.

"I fully plan on steering clear of those establishments, thank you,"

"Good boy," Happy praised, already switching subjects. "Did you apprentice with anyone down in New Orleans? That could help you find a job quicker here,"

"Yessir, I was a card-dealer, but I hardly think you have any high-risk gambling dens in this tiny place,"

Happy shook his head. "No, and I don't think Tony would take very kindly to you robbing his patrons out of their month's wages in a single night,"

James shook his head.

"Are you a strong worker? Lemme see your hands," Happy peered over the side of the counter, resting his elbows on the top, almost knocking over a box of cigars. James raised his hands, showing the shop keeper. Blistered and torn up from having to help with the poles on the riverboat, he knew his hands looked horrible. He lessened his expenses on the trip by helping out, no matter how much it hurt his body, and it showed with every ache in his back.

"Well, no blacksmith would want such long fingers gettin' in the way," Happy mused.

"Can you settle a wayward horse?"

"No, sir. Never got along too well with the big animals like, never had to when I lived in the city,"

"I see," Happy never gave his opinion on what he thought, and James appreciated it. "Can you read and write?"

"Yessir,"

"You good with numbers?"

"Had to be, working for,"  _ the name _ almost left his mouth, but he clamped his jaw shut.

He didn't work for them anymore. They were gone.

Happy didn't press the subject and nodded.

"Miss Nancy will be getting married soon, and that pesky matrimony always leads to a squirming, screaming little baby," Happy wrinkled his nose at the notion. "So there is going to be an opening as a school teacher within a few months,"

James nodded and kept the idea in his mind but shuddered. One or two kids were terrific, a room full of them was hell.

"Well," Happy sighed, "you can always go work on a farm until you get on your feet. Farmers will be getting their seeds within the week, and they're always looking for a little more help this time of year and again during the harvest. Would that be something you might be able to do, James?" Happy raised a bushy eyebrow at him, who nodded.

"I've never planted anything before," He admitted.

"They'll teach you, don't worry about it,"

Happy shuffled around behind the counter, slipping a pair of comically small bifocals on as he scanned over the day's ledger.

James took the conversation lull as an invitation to wander around the small, stuffed store. Crates of nails and barrels of corn were jammed under shelves with bolts of cloth and rows of coffee grinders. Pork packed in salt sat in a barrel next to an extensive collection of threads, pounds of lard soap was precariously perched on a shelf next to hatpins, and rows of elixirs and moonshine.

James sighed and picked up a bar of soap, knowing that the sliver of soap he had left wouldn't last him the week. It was well priced, only ten cents a bar, but he cringed at spending any sort of money.

But if he wanted a job, then he needed not to smell like he had migrated up with the pigs.

He brought his brown bar of soap up to Happy, who handed him his change and an apple.

"I didn't pay for an apple," James tried, but Happy waved him off, taking a bite of his own.

"They're from last year,"

James regarded the apple. It looked a little deflated, but one bite found that it was still entirely edible, and actually delicious. He sat on a stool behind the door as Happy continued talking.

"You know, I've been thinking about farmers that need the most help this year, and by God, I don't know how I didn't think of him before," Happy shook his head at himself.

"There's a fella called Steve Rogers, and I'll be damned if he didn't come in here not a day ago and tell me about how he didn't know if he would be able to get a crop in this year all by himself. God sure works in mysterious ways," Happy grinned at his cleverness, congratulating himself on putting each of their circumstances together.

"And you'll think he'll hire me on as help?" James questioned, skeptical. Where he came from, people didn't do things out of the kindness of their hearts very often. They always had an angle.

"Well, you see, that's a heartbreaking story," Happy didn't need to be prodded to continue. "Steve was living on a farmstead with his sister Sharon and her husband. Well, Sharon's husband's Joseph passed away while Sharon was pregnant with their daughter, the unfortunate woman. He was fishing on the river when his raft capsized and sunk, drowning him. That was over a year ago now, but two months ago, Sharon got real sick. That God-awful illness was horrible, a truly terrible thing to see. Sorry Doctor Banner, he tried everything he could to save her, but she was too sick. She passed away not long after, leaving that sorrowful Steve to raise his baby niece all by himself. A real tragedy." Happy shook his head in remorse, lost in thought.

"And he doesn't have anyone else to help him?" James questioned.

"Well, we try and help him the best we can, but he's not the only one with a farm to look after," he replied with a sigh.

"Wanda Maximoff helped him quite a bit in the beginning, showing him how to look after the babe and whatnot, but she has her own young family to raise too,"

"There a lot of sickness in this town?" James asked, suddenly feeling a little itchy under his clothes. He had seen so much illness in New Orleans. He couldn't handle death in another town.

"No, son, don't get yourself worked up. We have two doctors here, and they take mighty good care of us," Happy boasted.

James nodded even though he still scratched at his neck.

Off to the north, James heard the rhythmic sound of hooves on dirt and the creak of a wagon. Happy stood up behind the counter and leered out the window.

"Speak of the devil," he crowed loudly, waking Friday. The smush nosed dog gave a disinterested, half-hearted yap before reclining back on her bed.

James kept still as he listened to the wagon stop in front of the shop, and feet hitting the ground.

"Steve, how the hell are ya?" Happy greeted him loudly, grinning ear to ear as the door opened.

"Afternoon, Happy," Steve acknowledged the shopkeep. "I need something sweet for my girl before I get back home,"

Since James was on a stool behind the door, the man hadn't yet seen him. But James could see him. He was tall and broad, head hidden by a wide-brimmed hat. James swayed from his perch, exhaustion pulling at his balance.

Happy gladly pulled out bags of candy from the glass front of his counter, putting them a paper bag for Steve.

"How is the little one doin'?" Happy inquired, accepting the money.

"She's doing fine, considering, and growing like a weed,"

James could hear the smile in his voice.

"The little rascal finally learned my name," He continued, "Calls me Stevey, just like Sharon used to," there was a rueful, silent stretch, and he put the candy into the pocket of his canvas trousers. James' arm needed checking on soon, and now was  _ not  _ the time. Yet the wrenching pain sang to him all the same, pulsing and burning.

"That's just the sweetest thing, Steve, it really is." Happy affirmed, a somber smile on his face. James caught his eye over the shoulder of the farming giant, and the shopkeep nodded.

"Say, Steve,"

He pulled his attention away from a little doll behind the glass of the counter.

"You'll still be needing help for the sowing, won't you?"

"Yeah, Hap, you going to come up to the farm and help me plant some wheat?" He teased, and from his limited angle, James could only see a bit of his bearded face.

"No, son, I never was one for farming, but I think I found you a right likely hand," Happy nodded behind Steve at James, who was still silently sitting on the stool.

Steve turned in confusion and locked eyes on James, startled at finding out there was someone behind him the whole time.

"James here came off the boat this 'mornin', fresh all the way from New Orleans. Imagine that, someone from clear across the country," Happy's eyes glimmered with excitement.

Steve appraised him with his eyes, easily the bluest eyes James had ever seen. James had met people that looked like Steve in Lousiana. Tall, broad, and beautiful, they were the cockiest sons of bitches he had ever met. Men this appealing always had a whore dangling off of one arm and cigar on their lip; they wanted the world licking their boots.

He prayed he was wrong.

"You looking for work?" Steve asked, blond brow raised.

"Yessir," James nodded, rising from the stool, somehow hiding that he blacked out for a second.

"You ever work on a farm before?" He reached out and clasped hands with James. His hands were as warm and rough as expected, and it didn't settle James' stomach any.

"No, sir, but I'm quick to learn. I learned how to play  _ texas hold em _ in half an hour and beat the dealer, I can learn how to milk a cow," he added, a bit cheekily.

Happy grinned at him with a wink.

Steve just nodded solemnly.

"Is that what you did down south, gamble?"

"Not quite," James grimaced. "I was a card dealer at a gambling den, yes, but I never bet with my own money, sir," 

Steve rocked back on his heels, thinking.

_ God, he really is beautiful.  _ James caught himself thinking as he regarded the man. He quickly shunned his thoughts.

"I can't pay you much," He admitted, taking off his hat and running a hand through his short hair.

"I don't expect much," James added quickly.

"I can get you a roof over your head and food. You look like you haven't eaten in a week," he frowned.

Keeping any color from showing on his cheeks, James nodded while Steve's eyes scanned his body up and down.

He didn't want to explain that food on the Mississippi trip was too expensive for him to have every day, and eating less than one meal a day for three weeks led to hollow cheeks.

Steve's eyes settled on James' feet, noticing that he had on shoes that weren't falling apart, and that seemed to be the winning reason.

"Alright," he nodded, "you can come back with me. It'll save you from a night at Tony's Tavern, and you'll thank me for that later," Steve said, cracking a smile at Happy, who snorted loudly.

"Pepper and Jarvis are the reason that building is still standing, I swear,"

"I once saw Tony drink three quarters a bottle of bourbon fifteen seconds and wipe the floor with the other poker players," Steve mused, the left corner of his mouth quirking up at the memory. "The man is a force of nature and a little indestructible," He shook his head and walked to the door. "Thanks, Happy, I'll see you on Sunday,"

"Any time Steve," Happy called out and offered James a kind smile while he stood to follow Steve, ignoring how quickly the room was spinning. "Good luck, James,"

"Thank you, Happy, I really mean it," James said sincerely. Friday gave no indication that she cared about what was happening while they left the store.

Though Steve was maybe two inches taller than James, his stride was longer, causing the latter to pick up the pace.

A massive chestnut horse pulled his wagon, like genuinely gigantic. James faltered, astounded that an animal could get that big. He nickered to Steve as he got closer.

"Yeah, we're going home," he reassured, and in one fluid motion, he pulled himself up onto the driver's bench. James hesitated for a second before climbing up too. He wasn't as strong as Steve, but he could bet money that the farmer had never took a ballet lesson, and he could be graceful when he wanted.

He barely touched the horse's rumps with the reins, and they were off at slow ambling pace down the street.

James got no one's attention (a relished fact), but Steve had multiple people calling out greetings to him, tipping their hats and women telling him that they would pray for him and his niece. Even a few kids yelled his name, vigorously waving from the street.

The town was charming, James finally decided. Calm and amiable, the sort of place that belonged in a storybook that his ma used to read him, nestled perfectly in the crook of the Mississippi. The sun was getting lower on the horizon, elongating the shadows on the dirt path that led out of town. A flock of finches burst from the oak to the left of Steve, a riot of black yellow as they soared over the top of them, singing sweetly.

Steve waited until the din of the town was behind them to speak.

"Before we get any further out of town, I need you to know something," He said cautiously, his baritone voice leaving no room for jokes.

James had tried his best not to shrink away from him the entire ride, practically hanging off the edge of the bench to give the farmer as much space as he needed, and now was no different. If he moved an inch further to the right, he'd drop straight to the ground. James forced himself to meet his eyes.

"I have my niece to take care of, and she only learned how to walk two months ago. She is all that I have left. And if you hurt her in any way,"

James felt his heart stuttering with fear at the complete sincerity in Steve's low, calm voice. "I have a whole town of people that will have no trouble hanging you from a tree. Do you understand me?"

"Yessir," James said as levelly as he could. Of course, he had no intention of hurting the girl, and he planned on making that brutally apparent.

"And no more of that 'yes sir, no sir' bullshit. I'm not a sir. I'm Steve,"

James opened his mouth again, but 'yessir' almost came out, so he nodded instead.

Steve fell silent again, and James' attention was pulled to his hands that held the reins. They were large hands, rough from the years of farm life and tan from the sun. James desperately hoped that he would never be on the cruel side of his fists.

The dirt road led to another dirt road, and finally, a farmstead was visible in the distance. The horse's ears quirked up, and the massive chestnut let out a loud whinny that was answered by a ' _ moo _ ' and a rooster crow. 

Their pace increased without Steve's endorsement.

Feilds of tilled up dirt spanned on the left, as far as the hills would allow James to see, and the right was a collection of pastures housing a cow and a single irritated looking donkey.

A vicious, growling bark startled James as a huge dog came barreling down the driveway. The English shepherd paid no attention to the horse and, in one enormous leap, crashed into Steve.

He caught the thrashing bundle, accidentally knocking his shoulders into James.

The wriggling dog squirmed and writhed in his hold, crying and trying to lick his whole face as fast as he could.

"Peter, we talked about this," Steve grunted, pushing the dog's face away from his own.

James sat there, stunned, as Steve held onto the eighty-pound dog like he would a child, stroking its ears.

The dog stared at him with stars in its eyes and tail beating hard against James' legs.

"One of these days, you're going to knock me clear on my ass," Steve said sternly, looking down at the dog cradled in his arms. His tongue shot out and caught Steve's mouth.

_ "Bleh,"  _ he wrenched away and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Get down," He ordered, and Peter jumped down, prancing around the wagon, tail still wagging a mile a minute.

"Sorry about that," Steve apologized, wiping off his face with his shirt sleeve. "He's too sweet of a dog, and I don't know how he's lasted this long,"

"I thought we were getting attacked by a bear," James admitted, glancing at the dog who tore off across the lawn, rolling in the grass and snapping after bugs.

Steve laughed, an opened mouthed glorious thing. He tipped his head back and let the sound boom across the yard. James was overwhelmed at the volume, but deeply proud of himself for causing such a noise. He caught himself staring at the sparkling eyes underneath the broad hat and the sharp cut of his jaw that was partially hidden under a short, trimmed beard.

_ Now is not the time, Barnes. _ He growled at himself.

Steve seemed just as startled at the laughter as James, who wondered when was the last time laughed.

It seemed like he wanted to say something, to comment or say thank you, but Steve just looked at him for a few seconds.

James was partially successful in fighting down the flush that snuck up to his cheeks at having the full, unadulterated gaze of Steve on him.

The house was suddenly a lot closer, and James could see a shock of red hair in the window before Steve led the horse to the left, towards the barn.

Chickens squawked and flapped as they fled out from underneath the horse's feet; a few bleating goats followed. The farm was the healthy sort of chaos, the kind that didn't drain the mind. James knew the chaos of New Orleans, and this was a bubble bath in comparison.

_ Mmmm, _ he thought,  _ a bath. _ Hygiene on a riverboat was questionable at best, and he was ashamed to admit that he hadn't been fully submerged in a bathtub in weeks. There was only so much he could do with a basin of water and a washrag, and the results were starting to show.

When Steve swung down from the wagon, James followed, ready to help however he could. He had never unharnessed a horse before; he had never even  _ touched  _ a horse before.

"Come hold him steady," came Steve's voice from the other side of the horse. James carefully walked in front of the massive beast, and it didn't care about him at all, which was a little reassuring.

Rogers was standing on the left of the chestnut, rubbing his ears. The stallion (James hadn't been looking, but the evidence was  _ very  _ obvious as he stood there) was perfectly still, and he knew that Steve could do this all by himself, but was making James feel useful. The thought settled uncomfortably on his shoulders.

"Hold this," nodded to his hand, wrapped around the jaw strap of the bridle, and James carefully took hold. His hand was the only stopping the two thousand pound horse from ripping across the yard like the dog, and James blew out a slow breath. That caught the horse's attention as Steve ducked around them, unsnapping and unbuckling as he went along. 

His steady brown eyes were reassuring, giant body heaving as he stomped his foot at an irritating fly. One of his light brown ears followed Steve, but the other one was trained on James.

Sucking up some of the bravery that led him to this place, to begin with, he murmured gently to the stallion, smoothing a hand over his neck.

He wasn't expecting him to be so  _ hot _ . The fur was smooth and a little damp from sweat, but so soft. The stallion didn't seem to mind the attention, so he continued stroking his ridiculously thick neck, carding his fingers through his flaxen mane.

"Thor is such a baby," rumbled a voice to his right. Steve appeared out of nowhere, a little tilt to his mouth as stallion turned his head a to look at him, responding to his name.

_ Odd name, _ he thought to himself.

"Wait till I take the harness off, then you'll never be scared of him again."

James felt rude words biting his tongue, and he was almost unable to keep himself from snapping at Steve that he wasn't scared of horses.

_ We haven't even been here for ten minutes; it would work best if we weren't kicked out immediately.  _ He growled to himself.

True to his word, Steve hauled the harness up off of the horse and handed it off to James. The brown leather was significantly heavier than he thought it would be.

Steve's huge hands went on either side of the horse's neck, and he started itching. Thor's head reared up, lip curling while Steve scratched his chest, a high keening noise leaving his mouth.

James was dumbfounded, standing with his mouth open, body straining to hold onto the leather harness. Steve had his arms wrapped around the neck of a horse that could kill him in an instant, and he turned his head to  _ grin _ at James.

"Told you. Big baby,"

_ Shit, _ James thought to himself.  _ This is not going to be easy. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come, promise.
> 
> What happened to James' arm? (I don't know yet)
> 
> Guess who figured out how to italicize words? Yep. This idiot.
> 
> Questions? Comments? Concerns? Lemme know.


	2. Chapter Two

The last of the feed sacks dropped loudly onto the floor of the barn. James hadn't meant to drop them from so high up, but his shaking arms had let it go all the same. As the sack thumped against the floor, it sounded a little off. It hardly registered in his sleep-addled brain that the hay dusted plank floor sounded a trite hollow, and James quelled the thought. The pain in his arm pounded, snaking up to his shoulder and thundering in his head.

He was haphazardously introduced to more farm animals, including another enormous workhorse named Hela. She was a touch smaller than Thor, eyes a little darker, her body a shimmering black. She regarded James cooley as he walked passed the fencing by the barn. 

Peter followed them around the darling oaf of a dog he is, working his way under Steve's feet at every chance. The man was patient, James could offer him that.

The farm was small and happy, a Jersey cow and her yearling calf and an undetermined number of chickens. Wet looking soil, tilled and ready, stretched out around the pastures. James sighed at the thought of having to plant the no doubt hundred acres of land around the stead.

He had never minded manual labor nor the outdoors, but he'd be lying if he didn't feel more at ease with four walls and a roof around him.

James stood several feet behind Steve as the door of the farmhouse opened. A red-haired, gentle-faced woman stepped onto the porch, baby on her hip.

The child squealed when it realized it was looking at Steve.

She was a tiny thing, hardly able to keep her balance as she recklessly tottled across the porch.

"Stevey!" She called out in her tiny garbled baby voice, and the very same Stevey caught her as she reached the edge of the steps.

"Hello my Peggy girl, how are you?" He asked, face crinkled up into a blinding smile.

Peggy grinned back, her wild mop of curly brown hair was domesticated into a bow, which she showed to Steve. James couldn't understand a word that came out of her mouth, other than the occasional emphatic ' _Stevey_ ," or ' _Peter_ ' or ' _Wawa_.' Steve listened to her sagely, nodding, and adding commentary to her elaborate stories. It was a fascinating thing to watch. James had met far more people than was even in this town, and never once had he seen a man so profoundly invested in the jabberings of a baby, let alone their niece of a coherent age.

Steve turned back to the woman on the porch that was watching all of this happen; her eyes soft around the edges.

"How was she today, Wanda?" he asked around the child's hands. She was busy scrubbing her palms over the tidy beard on his cheeks; her face screwed up with delight at the feeling.

Wanda sighed, walking down the steps of the porch, hands on her hips, apron pristine.

"She was good for the most part, only had to get after her and that dog thirty times," she cast a look to the dog, who was happily getting kicked in the head by Peggy's swinging feet as he sat pressed up against Steve's legs. Peter had the sense to look away from Wanda as she said this.

"Uh oh," Steve didn't even try and hide his smile. "What did you and Peter do that was so mischievous?"

Peggy mumbled a few words, not meeting his eyes.

"You weren't bothering the cat again, were you?" His eyes sparkled.

Peggy grinned, a devilish little smirk that had Steve smiling back, despite his best efforts. "Loki naughty boy," she commented, wrinkling her nose. She held up her hand, showing Steve a shallow cut. "Loki scratch,"

"Yes, he does," Steve mused, grinning up at Wanda. 

"I told her to leave that horrible cat alone, but she wouldn't listen. He right about killed the dog," Peter's tongue lolled out of his mouth, "and neither stopped till she got swatted," Wanda shook her head.

"Ouch," Peggy pointed back to the scratch, letting Steve kiss it. She giggled from his beard tickling her hand, but it was cut short when she caught a look of James over Steve's shoulder.

"Who's the company?" Wanda questioned, turning her green-eyed gaze to James.

"This is James Barnes; he'll help me put the seed in and keep up the farm,"

James walked up to the porch and held out his hand to the woman, and she shook it firmly.

"Pleasure to meet you, ma'am," he nodded to her. She was downright beautiful, and he couldn't remember if Happy had said if Steve was married or not.

"Have you ever worked on a farm before, James?" Her grammar was better than most he had met here, eyes sharp and steady. James liked her and was simultaneously frightened of her.

"No, ma'am, I haven't. Aren't many farms in the heart of New Orleans,"

"What did you do in Lousiana?"

"I was a card dealer in a gambling den,"

"Which one?" Her heart-shaped face tilted a bit, and James felt himself shrinking under her hardened gaze, the pain in his left arm flared.

"It was called Hydra. It was a tavern, too," he watched as she nodded at this information, and he desperately worked to reassure himself that she had no idea about Hydra. They were hardly infamous in Lousiana, let alone this far up the Mississippi.

"Why did you leave the south?"

That was a loaded question. James wondered if he should shorten it into a more digestible answer. But the way that she was looking at him, the set of her jaw and the shine in her eye, he knew he shouldn't try.

"My boss wasn't a good man," he sighed, itching the back of his neck. "Hydra was going down, and I wasn't going with him,"

Wanda kept him pinned under her stare, somehow knowing there was more.

"When Hydra finally falls, there's going to be a reckoning for the owner. He owed a lot of horrible people a lot of money, and I wasn't sure that I would have survived living in the crosshairs. I tried to get out as many girls as I could, then I snuck out and ran,"

It burned his throat to admit his cowardice, and the shame weighed down his already drained shoulders.

"He was a whoremonger too?" Wanda asked, auburn eyebrow arched.

"He wasn't a good man," he repeated. 

Wanda regarded him for a long time, arms crossed under her chest, lips pressed thin. He wondered if he was worth the thought she was putting into her decision.

"Alright, James Barnes. Let's get some food in you before you tip over in the dirt,"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Take off your shoes, boys." She called over her shoulder, walking into the house.

Steve and Peggy followed James up the steps.

Peggy stood with her fingers in her mouth next to Steve while he took off his shoes, staring at James like he was bright orange.

He grinned the best he could at her, and briefly wondered how terrifying he looked. He hadn't seen a mirror in a few weeks, and he bet he looked like a wildman. He scratched at his scruff, wanting it gone.

Peter whimpered pathetically when Steve shut the dutch door behind him, the top half still open.

"Peter cry," Peggy said, pouting at the door.

"Peter is staying outside," Wanda said sternly from the kitchen.

"Stevey," Peggy stated, "Peter cry," she pointed to the door where the top of Peter's head poked over the open half of the door.

"I know, Peg, but you two will get in a fight with the cat again,"

The toddler glanced at the fireplace where a massive black tomcat lounged, ice blue eyes open slits as he purred contentedly.

She rubbed the small scratch on her hand and sighed.

The house was small but in the best way. James had been lent out as a card game dealer to a few plantations. Those houses had been too much, too big and impersonal.

This farmhouse was one big room, the tiny kitchen butted up against the tiny sitting area and the tiny dining table. It smelled like wood smoke, cooking food, beeswax, and leather. 

James found himself taking in a deep breath of the house.

Peggy continues staring at James while Steve helped Wanda set the table. He wiggled his eyebrows at the girl, and she broke into a natural smile, easily the most adorable thing he had ever seen.

Wanda bustled them all into chairs at the table, and James mouth watered at all the food. A small mountain of bread rolls, a massive cast iron pot of stew, and a pie was cooling in the window. He wondered how he had got lucky enough to find a place to stay that gave him food like this.

He was unsure of the proportions he should take, but Wanda solved that problem for him when she ladled his bowl full of the thick stew. It had enough meat and vegetables in that she could have poisoned it, and he still would have eaten it.

Grace was quick and sweet; Steve said the words, palms outstretched to either side of him. James held his right hand, and with his other, he tentatively reached for Peggy. Her hand was small enough that it disappeared under his fingers. The wound under his shirt sleeve dared him to peek out from under the cuff, dared to bleed down his wrist again. James forced the thought away.

_"Bless this food to our bodies, Lord, and let us hold you in our hearts. In Jesus' name, we pray, Amen,"_

James murmured Amen, and Wanda promptly stuffed a roll into his newly freed hand.

"Eat," she commanded him, offering one to Peggy who joyously tore into the bread.

It took every ounce of concentration and will power he had in his body to not open his gullet like a seagull and inhale his bowl of stew. He had not eaten anything this quality in months, nor this volume. James knew that if he ate too fast, he would regret it. He was already ashamed of admitting that he had run from New Orleans, he didn't need his body to betray him along with his mouth.

So he forced himself to eat slowly and methodically, reveling in the flavor and warmth of the food. Wanda and Steve spoke about their day, about the prices of animal feed, and when he had decided to plant the crops.

Peggy hummed to herself as she ate, her work with the spoon was a little unsteady still, but she managed to get most of the food in her mouth, and grinned victoriously at James when she cleaned her whole bowl.

"Wawa," she showed Wanda the empty bowl. "Wawa, more?"

Wanda obliged, smirking to herself at the name the toddler had given her.

"Don't look at laugh at what she calls me, Barnes," she caught James' miniature smile. "I guarantee she'll have you named something more ridiculous by the end of the week," She raised an eyebrow at the toddler who graciously accepted the second helping that Wanda slid in front of her.

James positively beamed for the first time in months, unable to keep it to himself. He absolutely _adored_ the idea of Peggy giving him a new name.

"I won't mind that at all,"

From the corner of his eye, he caught Steve watching him.

It felt good to smile like that. It was like stretching out a muscle that had been kinked up and sore for months.

* * *

"Here," Wanda thrust a straight razor into James' hands. "Use it. You look like a vagrant."

James nodded.

"Behind that curtain," she pointed to the corner of the house by the staircase, it was more like a non-vertical ladder. "there's a washbasin and a mirror. I'll go look for clothes that'll fit you," she scanned his body. "You look about the same size as Sharon's husband,"

James took the blade back to the corner, sliding the curtain shut. He longed for a bath, but as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, Wanda was right. He was downright shocked that Happy had let him into his store and that Steve _brought him home._

James wrinkled his nose and got to work, lathering up his face and neck. He was surprised that he had managed to grow the amount of facial hair he had in the three weeks he hadn't shaved.

He'd be impressed if looked even remotely attractive.

He ran his fingers down his newly smooth cheeks and remembered when Zola had offhandedly told him that men would come to his table to gamble if he was cleanly shaven. When James asked him why Zola said it was because they liked a pretty face to impress. James had pointed out that there were plenty of female dealers at the club, and Zola had grinned that horrible smile and told him that the men that James dealt for didn't want to fuck the female dealers, that they wanted to fuck _him_.

James stopped asking questions after that.

The sweetness of having a fresh face was soiled.

"James?" Wanda asked from the other side of the curtain.

"Yeah?"

"Here's a stack of clothes and some stuff to clean up with,"

He quickly opened the heavy blue curtain.

Wanda looked at his face and smiled.

"I knew there was a handsome devil in there,"

James blushed somehow, even though he had heard that term a hundred times before.

"There's a freshwater stream down passed the little gully, probably a five-minute walk from the barn. You can go there to wash up if you like. There's a bathtub out in the barn, but Steve is out there right now, getting the animals ready for the night," James shook his head, knowing how horrible that would end.

"I'll head down there right now," He took the clothes, towel, and soap from her hands. "And thank you, Wanda. Really. It means a lot that you're doing this for me,"

"I should be thanking you," her smile grew rueful. "I, umm, I heard him laughing," She looked up at James, and he could see the tears swimming in her eyes. "I heard him laughing when you two were coming up the drive. It was the first time he's laughed since Sharon died, and I can't tell you how happy that makes me. He's done a remarkable job with Peggy and the farm all by himself; I don't know how he does it. I come when I can, but I have my own family to take care of too. I need him to be okay, especially for this little girl,"

Over her shoulder, James could see Peggy carefully petting the cat, whose flicking tail was the only sign he wasn't asleep.

"And I know you have a good heart." She laid her hand on his right arm, thankfully. "So I know I can trust you to take care of them. Can't I?"

"Yes, ma'am," James whispered. 

"Good," she sniffled away her tears. "Now go wash up,"

The stream wasn't that hard to find; James just hoped it wasn't too cold.

Peter had followed him down the path, his clumsy body bustling down the path, startling away every wild animal in a mile radius.

James had learned to swim in the most disgusting water holes in the armpit of New Orleans, and this was a holy bath in comparison.

He hadn't bothered putting his shoes back on, opting to go barefoot. He just carried them with, scrubbing the leather with his filthy shirt sleeve. Sighing, he finally resigned to the fact that they wouldn't be clean ever again, and he walked entirely clothed into the stream. Hissing at the cold water, he pushed himself deeper into the running water.

 _God, this is freezing,_ he growled to himself. It was only May, and this far north, he was sure the thaw was hardly a month old.

Peter didn't seem to mind the temperature as he scrambled into the shallows, hopping after a bullfrog.

It didn't take long to adjust to the frigid little river, and he was glad because this was not a process to rush.

His clothes were thoroughly wet, and he carefully peeled off the layers.

His left arm twinged at the cold water, walking the razor edge of pleasure and pain. The coolness felt good, but the sensation of water running over his skin had him grinding his teeth.

The burn was weeks old now, the worst of it was over. It could have been worse, and he knew it, but that didn't take the pain away. It didn't make his skin look any less horrible; it didn't make scarring less prominent.

Carefully, he rinsed off the grime of the week. It started at where his arm and shoulder met, spilling down his arm until his wrist. As he stared it, he could still feel the heat of the flames licking his skin, ready to curl into his hair like lover's fingers.

He steeled himself and carried on with his bath. He had wanted one for weeks, and he wasn't going to let these thoughts ruin it for him. Tossing the clothes onshore, he grabbed the bar of soap that Wanda gave him. It didn't have a distinct smell other than clean, and it was enough for James. He ran the bar over his head until he had more suds than hair, and then he _scrubbed_ . _Oh_ , it was delightful. Scraping his fingers across his scalp until it was completely numb, he marveled at how long his hair was getting. When he finally dunked his head in the water for a good long time, his hair rested a bit past his shoulders.

His barber wasn't here to scold him, and he was thankful because the water was hardly waist-deep.

The soap and washcloths were put to good work. James used more of Wanda's soap than he probably needed too, but he would apologize for that later because nothing was going through his mind at the moment other than getting clean.

In a word, it was _divine_.

His clothes followed, he scrubbed them so hard he wondered how many holes he created.

Finally, feeling a bit raw and wondrously clean, James got out of the water. Drying off, he inspected the clothes that Wanda had given him. It was essentially the same thing he had been wearing when he had come, just different colors. When he had first got burned, a doctor had given him a jar of ointment to rub on his arm every day with instructions to wrap it until there were no more open wounds. James had followed the instructions, but there was a patch on his forearm that refused to heal. The skin had been cut open when he had gotten burned, and the cut was like no other he had. He knew it would scar, and it would be ugly. Like every other night, he rubbed the cream on his arm and wound a bandage around the cut.

He pulled on the new drawers and pants, relieved to find that they fit him far better than he could have hoped. The blue cotton shirt was a bit loose, but he doubted that it would be a problem when he had regular meals and manual labor on his horizon. The thought excited him, which in turn, worried him.

He wanted nothing less than to get too attached too soon. He wasn't an orphaned little boy anymore, and this wasn't a family to adopt him and make sure the world wouldn't hurt him.

He was long passed that.

He hadn't found a family when he was a little boy; he had found Zola.

And it showed in every square inch of his body and every ounce of his imaginary trust.

A hard world makes hard people.

"What do you think?" he asked Peter, who had the bullfrog between his paws and was licking it like a piece of candy. He snapped on the suspenders and picked up his wet, now clean, clothes.

"If bring that frog back and eat it, Peggy is going to cry," he told the dog. As if he understood him, Peter ambled to his feet and watched the frog hop away, a little off-balance from the mistreatment. 

"Let's go," 

The sun was low on the horizon, throwing the forest in shades of gold and pink. Birds sang from the budding treetops, and peeper frogs added to the chorus. It was amazingly, inexplicably calming. James took in a deep breath of the slowly cooling air, allowing himself a moment of relief. He had gotten away. He was safe. Zola was almost a thousand miles away.

This was fresh and new and damn anyone that tries to screw up the life he was going to create here.

The farm was somehow just as beautiful as the woods, the sun setting to the west in the fields, lighting up the yard in the last of the day's warmth.

The cows and horses were all put away; the chickens had wandered back into their coop, the wayward goats in the barn. The stead floated in the soft sounds of the farm settling down. A horse snorted and stamped its foot, the chomp of livestock mouths on hay came from the barn. The chickens warbled themselves to sleep.

Wanda was leaving the house as James walked across the yard. There was a wagon parked out front of it, pulled by a mule.

A tall man stood next to her, blond and well put together. The three of them talked quietly, Peggy was thoroughly nestled into Steve's neck, already in her nightgown. 

"Look at you," Wanda appraised him as James walked up, smile wide. "How do you feel?"

"So much better, thank you," he felt more confident in his smile, seeing how he had brushed his teeth for five glorious minutes.

Wanda turned to say goodbye to Steve and Peggy. The tall man reached out his hand to James.

"I'm Victor, Wanda's husband. Good to meet you," He had a pleasant English accent.

"James," he nodded back, knowing he shouldn't be listening to the conversation to his right, but he couldn't help it.

Victor seemed to share the sentiment because he continued to face James like they were going to finish the conversation.

Wanda wrapped Steve and Peggy into a hug, reaching up on the tips of her toes. Pale hands ran over his back in a comforting motion while she whispered in his ear.

James felt voyeuristic from listening. Victor scuffed his foot on the ground.

"I'm so proud of you, Steve," Wanda said, her body dwarfed as his arms wrapped around her. "You are doing such a fantastic job with Peggy, Sharon would be so pleased with all that you've done. I know she would be,"

She pressed a long kiss into Steve's cheek, fingers quick to wipe away the tears in his eyes.

"Thank you, Wanda," he managed to say, the sincerity thick in his words.

"You're truly welcome," She smiled even as she wasn't as careful to catch her own tears.

* * *

That night, James couldn't figure out why he was still awake. Wanda had squashed his idea of sleeping in the barn, saying that there was a perfectly good spare bed in Peggy's room that Steve could use, and James could use Steve's bed.

So, James was laying in nothing but his drawers in another man's bed, trying with all of his mind and soul to ignore how the pillow smelled.

A bit harder than he was expecting.

For the first time in a while, he let himself miss some of the girls he had befriended at Hydra. They were wonderful girls, classy enough to not tumble with just any man, but seasoned enough that their jokes could make a priest have a stroke.

Claudelle would squeal and toss her massive blonde curls like she always did, telling James how lucky he was to be in this bed.

Natasha would scoff and sharpen her blood-red nails and tell him to count his blessings that the other man hadn't come crawling under the sheets, expecting something more.

Polly, the youngest and sweetest girl Zola had, would swoon and gush over how romantic it was that he was letting James sleep in his bed, like a prince from the stories.

All three of them would coo and fuss over his arm, offering advice on how to best conceal it. Say what you want about the prostitutes, but they knew how to cover up injuries. Not every john was gentle. 

They were all awful and insipid, and he loved them so much it ached in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In stories, it always bothers me when the hygiene routine of a character is never mentioned, so after this point, please assume that James and Steve bathe often and happily. They also brush their teeth like they're proving a point.  
> I do not care at all if this is time period correct, because I'll gladly diverge from historical accuracy because dirty people are gross. These characters are not gross.  
> It also too much work to name chapters, so from here on out, they're numbers. I know you don't care about that, and I care just enough to address it.  
> Thank you for reading my rant.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daisy, Daisy give me your heart to do  
> I'm half crazy, hopeful in love with you  
> It won't be a stylish marriage  
> I can't afford the carriage  
> But you look sweet upon the street  
> On a bicycle built for two

“ _Fuck_ ,” James hissed, glaring at the cow. She hadn’t put her foot down yet, still half-cocked and ready to strike again. She bellowed, low and deep. Her impassive eyes seemed to narrow at him.

“I don’t even _want_ to touch you, so don’t let your head get too big,” he snapped, resisting the urge to whack the tan cow.

Muttering and glowering, he rubbed out his thigh. “How the hell do you have such good aim?” The kick had landed right in the middle of his leg, no doubt bruising it impossible shades of purple and green.

The swishing tail caught him square in the face.

Angrily spluttering, James snatched the milk pail from beside her and stormed away. It was only three-quarters full, but having learned how to milk a cow only four days earlier, he figured it was good enough.

Four days he had been on the farm. It hadn’t all been bad; in fact, it was pretty damn good. The labor was exhausting, and his back and arms burned from their new uses, and it was great.

He didn’t fall into bed in a room without a lock, one eye always open, waiting for someone to try and slither their way in after dark. He didn’t have to feel sick about one of his friends getting hurt by an overzealous john or Zola deciding to sell one of his ‘employees’ off to a neighboring bar for a pocketful of money. It was the frontier, but it was safer.

The cow, however nasty, never asked him what he did to survive.

Her calf watched from the entrance of the barn, her velvet ears piqued at her pissy mom. She was much too young to breed but too old to continue to nurse. It left her in an awkward stage of gangly legs, and too much mischief and nothing to do _about_ said mischief.

The chickens were another story. James had more experience eating chickens than taking care of them, and managing a coop was significantly easier in theory.

In practice, it was hilarious. James, of course, _assumed_ that it was entertaining to watch him get attacked by a five-pound rooster, a fury of brown and white feathers. Nothing specific prompted the feathered demon, he went after anything that tickled his fancy, including the clothes hanging on the line, Peter, and his reflection in the aluminum stock tank. 

James figured he would look better at the bottom of a crockpot instead of preening his feathers in front of disinterested hens, but it wasn’t his farm.

Midmorning floated in on a pleasant breeze, lifting the hair off of James’ sweaty neck. He had tied it up when he started, but it fell from its bonds within an hour. The girls at Hydra would fuss with hair for hours if he let them, brushing it out and braiding it, assuring him that it didn’t make him look like a girl. James never understood why they said that. He knew he didn’t look like a girl, his chest hair and graveled voice could attest to the fact.

The cow was milked, the barn stalls were clean, Thor and Hela were turned out to pasture, everything was on pause, for a moment.

James took that moment to collapse on the soft spring grass, not caring that hardly any work was done, yet he was shaking from the effort.

Fingers threading through his hair, he pulled out the tie and fanned it out on the grass, cooling him down.

It took only two minutes before a shadow fell across his face. Cracking open a blue eye, he saw an intrigued Peggy standing over him. She wore a flour-sack dress, her hair that once tamed into a bow was now a curled mop.

“Hello,” James whispered, not willing to move yet.

The two of them hadn’t had much contact in the four days he was at the farm, and James couldn’t blame Steve for that. He was trusting James a hell of a lot, but Peggy was different than a horse or a cow.

James would love to get to know the little girl, but he didn’t push it. 

Not responding, she hovered by his head, studying his hair.

Several long moments passed before her near comically serious face relaxed.

“Pretty,” she pointed to his hair.

“Thank you,” he smiled lazily at her, wondering how she could get any more adorable. “You’re hair is really pretty too,”

Peter joined them shortly after, the perfect babysitter. James quickly sat up with a groan to avoid being licked in the face by the enthusiastic dog.

It was May, yet the ground still had a bite to it that he had not expected.

Peggy watched all of this with intelligent brown eyes, not missing a detail.

Carefully, as if he was a spooked animal, she reached out and petted his hair. 

James’ heart melted a little bit.

Her tentative touch grew bolder as she ran her chubby baby fingers through the tangles, wildly grinning when he let her.

“Pretty, pretty,” she sang. His status as a stranger now forever broken in less than thirty seconds. She leaned against his shoulder and taking both of her hands, she scrubbed them across his head, causing his hair to look like a tornado.

She laughed recklessly, a sweet, adorable noise that made James’ chest feel too small for his expanding heart.

“Thank you,” he smiled at her. She smiled back, her tiny baby teeth shining.

Peter, upon realizing that there were little shenanigans for her to do next to James, reclined into the grass.

Peggy talked to him animatedly in her nonsensical baby jabber, her chubby palms tapping his cheeks when she finished arranging his shoulder-length hair the way she wanted it, which was a complete disaster.

“Mama gone,” she whispered, inviting herself into his lap, stepping on his leg to better reach his hair, “Papa gone,”

“I know. I’m sorry,” he whispered back, meaning every syllable. Her giant brown eyes locked on his, and for a moment, he swore that she understood the death of her parents far better than she should have.

Before her eyes could mist over and betray the adorable moment, James masked the pain in his burnt arm by picking a daisy. He carefully tucked it into her savage burst of burnt copper curls, smiling as she clapped her hands.

“More!” she squealed.

That’s where James found himself ten minutes later, sitting cross-legged in the damp grass, twirling toddler in front of him, and one hundred pound dog leaning against his thigh. To top it all off, he was singing for the little girl, and making her a third flower crown.

_“Daisy, Daisy, give me your heart to do. I’m half crazy, hopeful in love with you. It won’t be a stylish marriage. I can’t afford the carriage. But you look sweet upon the street. On a bicycle built for two,”_

She mumbled the tune along with him, too busy dancing to care about the lyrics.

Running back to James, she tripped on his foot and giggled at her dizziness before toppling into his lap. He had tangled her hair around every flower she could find, leaving her with a head full of buttercups, dandelions, daisies, and Indian paintbrushes. She had insisted that James have a flower crown too, squealing in delight when he donned the wreath.

Peter, placid on the ground, didn’t even twitch an eye while Peggy ripped up handfuls of grass and scattered it on his body.

It all seemed a little less impossible right then, a bit less unobtainable. James had been running for so long; he had yet to bother to stop and take a breath. The realization snapped something in him, throwing him off-center. Surviving had been so much of his life for so long; he wasn’t sure how to live anymore.

When was the last time he sat like this? Cross-legged in the grass, not paranoid of what was behind him? Smiling?

So this is what freedom was. It smelled like honeysuckle and farm, it looked like reckless little girls twirling with abandon, and like lazy dogs. 

James could _definitely_ get used to it.

“STEVEY!” Peggy screeched as another shadow fell over James, this one a _bit_ bigger than the last.

“LOOK! FLOWERS!” She jumped around on her unsteady, pudgy legs, reaching up for Steve, tiny hand clenched around the third crown.

“I see,” he mused with a bit of crooked smile, taking off his hat.

James tilted his head back to look at him, grinning while Peggy painstakingly set the flowers around his head.

 _Oh dear,_ he thought to himself. James deliberately did not look at the way sweat made his shirt stick to his body. Or how his sleeves were pushed up on his forearms, exposing the prominent veins on his hands. Or how his eyes crinkled at the edges while Peggy beamed at him, announcing how lovely he was now that he had a flower headpiece too. He could _hear_ Natasha purring in his mind at the sight of him.

James wondered if he should get up, but he was feeling gluttonous with his newly realized freedom, so he stayed stretched out on the ground, peering up at the two of them.

“Bucky pretty,” she pointed down from her high advantage, gesturing to James.

“Who?” Steve tried to frown, but it warred with the smile still on his mouth.

“Bucky,” she responded triumphantly, wriggling down out of his arms.

“I’m _Bucky_? What is a Bucky?” James raised an eyebrow as the girl came back to him, reaching up to fix his flowers, leaning against his right shoulder.

“Bucky,” she affirmed sternly. He grinned back at her, something that was getting easier to do the more he tried. It felt so good to smile again.

“Okay, Peggy darlin’, I’ll be your Bucky,”

The little girl giggled and planted sticky kisses on his cheek.

Steve watched the exchange with an odd expression, face a little pinker than before, eyes a little brighter. He covered it with a cough.

“Wanda was right. She gave you a new name before the end of the week. Three days to spare,”

“Wanda is a smart woman,” the newly christened Bucky pondered, wincing when Peggy’s fingers pulled his hair.

“That she is,” Steve agreed, big arms crossed across his broad chest, almost a bit defensively. “That she is,”

* * *

James didn’t know what woke him up first. The low growling was coming from downstairs or the hair prickling feeling of _wrongness_ in the air.

He was on his feet in an instant; covers flung away, shirt hastily shrugged on as he padded his bare feet down the stairs. The cracked open windows filtered in the soft sounds of the night, the crickets and frogs, but there was something else outside that had him on high alert.

He came to a stop at the foot of the stairs, eyes trained on Steve at the entrance of the house.

The top half of the door was open, and for once, Peter had been let inside. The dog stood, peeking through the crack in the door, lithe body crouched low, and his fur bristled out. The tomcat sat in the window, equally puffed out and angry, glacial eyes locking on Bucky as he watched.

“Did Peggy wake up?” Steve whispered, sparing James a glance, eyes quickly flicking over his body before returning to whatever was outside the door.

James forced himself not to shy away from the look, however brief.

“No,” he whispered back, managing to clasp only one button shut with his shaking hand. His left arm didn’t take too kindly to being woke up with a surge of adrenaline; it left it throbbing and shaking.

Steve was similarly dressed, but the extreme lack of light left almost everything to the imagination.

“Wha’s out dere?” James stood as close as he dared to Steve, slipping into a heavier accent. He had been trying to move away from it, but it didn’t work right then.

The moonlight streamed into the house from the open door, bathing Steve in the silvery/blue shine. It washed down the hard lines of his face and the column of his throat, making him impossibly gorgeous. Something warm fluttered in James’ stomach, and he desperately tried to squash the sensation.

In an attempt to distract himself, he glanced down, and his heart stuttered a little in his chest. Curled, in Steve’s hand, was a gun. It wasn’t the hunting rifle that was now on the chair by the door, but a silver handgun, the wooden grip was being choked by his white-knuckled hold.

Steve nodded to the barn.

“Wolves,” he murmured back, eyes never leaving the target in the distance.

Bucky’s eyes snapped out the door, searching.

“How many?”

“Three that I’ve seen. Probably more than seven out of sight,”

James swallowed hard.

“What’re you goin’ to do?”

“Nothing, yet,”

Steve stayed true to his word. James lingered next to him, eyes scanning the yard, ears straining for any sort of sound. Four pairs of eyes were less likely to miss something.

Fifteen horrible minutes passed before the tension was cut in the air.

Peter’s growl shook his body, fixated on something the two people couldn’t see. If the door opened, the dog would no doubt go after the predators.

Then, suddenly, James could see them.

Eight wolves materialized from the darkness of the fields surrounding the house, each of them more massive than the next, hungry eyes scouring the farm. They wandered up too close to the home, ears swiveling and tracking everything in the house.

They were close enough that James could see the specks of blood on their muzzles, see the breath curl from their noses in the cold night.

The gun was ready in Steve’s hand.

Peter’s body was a coiled tight and ready to snap, pressed hard against Steve’s legs, and the door, the threatening growl that was pronounced in every tremble of his furious body, only piqued the interest of the wolves.

A long minute passed, and one of the wolves lifted his snout to the sky and opened his mouth.

It only took seconds for the others to chime in, their howls staining the night. Everything else quieted around the sound, leaving room for only the howls.

The noise was insanely loud and eternally long, it filled up every empty space, and it tormented Bucky’s arm.

Then, like a switch, they were finished.

One by one, in a neat and orderly line, they trailed off after each other back into the woods, off to terrorize someone else.

James let out a shaky breath, relaxing his shoulders that he didn’t remember tensing.

By some miracle, Peggy didn’t wake up from the commotion, even though James’ head was still ringing from it.

Steve shut the top half of the door and stroked the top of Peter’s head.

“Good boy,” he murmured. Peter whined.

James stepped out of his way while he picked up the rifle and set it back on its hooks over the fireplace, but he kept the pistol in his hand.

“Are they comin’ back?”

Steve shook his head, “couldn’t find a way in the buildings. The night is still young, and there are other things to hunt,”

That didn’t quell James’ churning mind at all.

The tomcat, Loki, stretched out on the rug in front of the fire, currently unconcerned. Bucky took that as another reassuring sign that the beasts wouldn’t be back, the animals would know first.

The two people watched as a very tentative Peter walked up to the cat, smelling him gently. This is usually the part where the colossal puppy gets bopped on the nose for breaking the cat’s personal space, but not this time. Peter was allowed to hunker down next to the cat, curling his fluffy body around the sleek black cat, over the moon at being allowed the contact.

Steve raised his eyebrows.

“I think that might be the strangest thing that happened tonight,” he admitted.

James smiled.

It felt wondrously good to have a reason to smile again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, I know that the song was written like forty years after the story takes place. I thought it was cute.  
> *IMPORTANT NOTE*  
> Because I simply lack the patience, I will not be over-doing it with the religious overtones that the time period generally requires. The usual man in the 1850s would have a VERY hard time coming to the realization that he was gay and accepting it. I'm not saying that these characters are throwing pride parades and fucking in a church, but I will not have chapter after chapter of them angsting over 'being sodomites'. I might sprinkle it on lightly, but the homophobia will be cranked down significantly. And also because it turns my stomach and I hate writing it.  
> I would love to write a period-correct piece, but that sounds so damn difficult.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little insight into Steve... past and potential future...

This was the longest Steve had stayed in one place for years. Sharon was only a year younger than him, so he didn't have to wait long for her to get married. Ma and Pa died while he was away. Sharon moved in with Joseph on the farm, and suddenly Steve didn't have anyone else to take care of, no one needed him. 

The school teacher always told him he was good at settling arguments in the schoolyard; Pa always told him he was good with his hands and needed something to do with them, and that asshole that always teased Sharon was knocked out with one (admittedly impressive) punch from Steve.

So, when Clint Barton came through town with a man tied up and slung over his dusty buckskin horse and threw him to the feet of Sherrif Fury, he had adequately piqued Steve's interest.

Eight shots of bourbon and two hours later, Steve decided to join the gunslinger. Ma almost scalped him when he told her, Sharon laughed until she found out he was serious. Steve took all the money he had, shoved all of his clothes in a bag, grabbed his hunting rifle off the wall, and was out the door. The gelding he bought was hardly broken, Steve could scarcely stay on the chestnut bastard when he and Clint took off to the next town.

That's how the next decade went. 

He'd show up in Aurora Run once or twice a year and stay for a week, sending letters when he could. From age seventeen to twenty-seven, he and Clint put away well over forty sleazy pieces of shit. It was rough and dirty and dangerous, weeks on end spent under the open sky by a campfire, it was sometimes not seeing another person besides Clint for days. It was bloodied knuckles from bashing in the face of a rapist; it was being tackled off the back of horses when bandits got the drop on him.

Every single second, he was shockingly, electrifyingly _alive._

The strangled scream of the rooster snapped Steve away from his thoughts. He was a hideous creature, hardly a foot tall and with enough piss and vinegar in him that it was entirely plausible for him to take on a bear by himself. Tilting his head back and squinting his beady little eyes at Steve, he flapped his tiny wings.

The call for Peter to come to chase away the pest died in his mouth when he realized that the dog was scared of the chicken. Too bad Loki didn't arrive when he was called, or the tomcat would be the _perfect_ match for the cocky mongrel. 

"Piss off," he snapped, kicking a boot at him. The rooster squawked loudly in protest, flapping his wings in a deeply offended show of tiny might.

Steve snorted.

Sharon loved this farm. The love was spread over the entire property like a snug blanket, the perfect garden, the meticulous yard, the little flowers carved into the bottom of the window sills, the painstakingly planted flowers that were just starting to bloom.

Everywhere he turned, there was Sharon. Her smell still lingered in the wardrobe that Steve could hardly even bear to open, her apron still on the wall. He missed her so severely that his bones _shook_ with it. Sometimes, Steve would turn and expect her to be leaning against the porch railing and teasing him about how silly he looked pretending to be a farmer.

She was right, this vision in his head, a perfect version of Sharon. She was healthy in his mind, cheeks full and grinning, eyes bright, none of her dull and gasping for breath from sickness.

His hand fit better around a gun than a rake, his body dangerously strong from a decade of chasing and taking down criminals, not wrestling uncooperative goats.

He was playing a game, and he didn't know how to win.

 _"Daisy, Daisy, give me your heart to do. I'm half crazy, hopeful in love with you. It won't be a stylish marriage. I can't afford the carriage. But you look sweet upon the street. On a bicycle built for two,"_ the singing floated into the barn where he was supposed to be fixing the latch on the door but was distracted by intrusive thoughts. The voice wasn't that good, level enough to carry the lilting tune, but the fact that _anyone_ was singing right now was what got Steve's attention. Reckless giggles followed the singing, and curiosity got the best of him.

Peggy twirled around on the lawn next to James, spinning faster than her feet could keep up with. She looked like Sharon at this moment, closed eyes cast up to the sky, arms outstretched trying to grasp the wind between her fingers, an unbounded smile stretched across her face.

 _God,_ Steve thought, unable to fight the wretched pain in his chest. _I can't do this alone, Sharon,_ he begged, throwing a glance to the backfield where she was buried next to her husband.

He didn't know how to raise a kid, let alone a little girl. What happens when she grows up and meets boys? What happens when she has questions only a mom can answer?

"STEVEY!" the beast in question squawked, launching herself at his legs, a wildflower crown around her head, another in her pudgy hand. Her bright eyes shined up at him in excitement, and he was unable to keep a straight face.

"LOOK! FLOWERS!" She desperately waved the extra crown in her hand, reaching up to his head.

"I see," Steve commented, understanding her perfectly. It hadn't taken very long for him to pick up on the little language she had created.

James was characteristically quiet from his spot a few feet away, watching all of this happen. Steve wasn't sure if he was quiet half the time because he was uncomfortable, or because he had nothing to say.

Peggy was scooped up, and the hat came off, and an impressively woven flower crown was placed on his sweaty head. Once she was satisfied with the flower placement, she beamed up at him. Before he could express his thanks or how absolutely _delightful_ she looked, she conversationally motioned to James.

"Bucky pretty,"

The man in question's head popped up, drawing Steve's eyes to him for a split second.

He, too, wore a flower crown, long black hair resting on his shoulders. His long legs stretched out in front of him; his long torso braced up on his right elbow.

Steve looked away quickly.

"Who?" he asked instead of letting his eyes wander like they wanted to, already piecing together what was happening.

"Bucky," she replied, deciding she wanted down and frantically squirmed till he set her on the ground.

James watched her with amused eyes as she sidled up to him and fidgeted with his hair. His face was softer when he smiled; the dark circles were a little less pronounced, the cut of his jaw made less intimidating. Peggy didn't seem to mind that Steve picked the vagrant up on the street or that he was _definitely_ hiding something from them, she had found a gentle new friend that sang her sweet songs and made her flower crowns. 

"I'm _Bucky_? What's a Bucky?" he asked, a small smile growing.

"Bucky," was all she said, and the smile burst from his mouth.

It had been a hard decision to bring a stranger to the farm, especially with Peggy there, and this entire exchange was melting Steve's anxiety about the choice.

This was a new sort of smile that he hadn't seen the man exhibit before, lazy and broad and so _bright_. It sorta looked like sunshine, lighting up an area that hadn't seen the sun for a long time. It spilled down his throat and onto the popped open buttons of the top of his shirt.

"Okay, Peggy darlin', I'll be your Bucky," he relented quickly, happily accepting his new name. The little girl giggled and planted sticky kisses on his cheek.

His blue eyes caught Steve's then, and he was trapped under the full force of the adoration that had been turned to Peggy just a second before. He knew it wasn't for him, but the younger man hadn't bothered shifting emotions before naturally glancing at Steve, and it was _a hell of a_ look.

It had been a long time since someone looked at him like that.

Every rude word in his lexicon percolated on the tip of his anxious tongue, a piteous and truly pathetic counteraction to the _stunning_ realization that he wasn't completely straight. He coughed.

"Wanda was right. She gave you a new name before the end of the week. Three days to spare,"

"Wanda is a smart woman," the newly christened Bucky pondered, wincing when Peggy's fingers pulled his hair.

"That she is," Steve agreed, big arms crossed across his broad chest, wishing he could push out the little worm in the back of his head. "That she is,"

* * *

Steve wasn't sure how long he was standing by the door watching the wolves when he heard Bucky get up.

He had spent too many years under nothing but open sky in the middle of the wilderness to neglect the way the air tingled with the threat of a predator.

James was impressively quiet as he padded down the stairs, and Steve only spared him half a glance, something he was happy about when he looked at him. Disheveled from sleep and wearing only a shirt and drawers, he hadn't bothered to button up the shirt yet, exposing his long, lean torso. 

"Did Peggy wake up?"

"No," Steve pretended that he could feel James' eyes on him too.

"Wha's out dere?" he whispered, close enough that Steve could feel the heat of his words on his shoulder.

The shiver was repressed successfully, but just barely.

"Wolf,"

"How many?"

"Three that I've seen. Probably more than seven out of sight," this wasn't the first time Steve had a gun in his hand in the dead of the night, waiting for a predator to come out and try and get him. 

James swallowed audibly.

"What're you goin' to do?"

"Nothing, yet," That was an invitation to walk away, to go back to bed and let someone else handle it. James still wasn't used to manual labor every day, and he certainly wasn't used to eating three meals a day. He probably thought that Steve didn't notice the way his arms shook when he did work or how he cleaned up every drop of food off of his plate but never asked for more.

He didn't know that it was Steve's job for a decade to hunt people. When you hunt a person, you start to pick up on the little things they did, the way they moved through space, how they walked, how they talked, what they did when no one was looking.

But instead, James nodded to himself and stayed, squinting out into the dark of the night.

Steve felt a little smug, and he didn't want to dwell on _why_.

The howls were insufferably horrible. The last time Steve had been surrounded by a wolf pack, he and Clint had spent the whole night back to back, rifles across their laps and pistols cocked in their hands, neither daring to close their eyes.

James was handling all of this remarkable well, even though he was a bit paler than before.

Steve shut the top half of the door and stroked the top of Peter's head.

"Good boy," he murmured. Peter whined.

"Are they comin' back?" he whispered as Steve reached over the mantle to hang up the rifle. The last thing he needed was Peggy playing with it in the morning.

Steve shook his head, "couldn't find a way in the buildings. The night is still young, and there are other things to hunt,"

He didn't want to hear the screams of whatever the pack finds as a meal replacement.

Loki stretched out on the rug in front of the fire, currently unconcerned. He was an absolute bastard of a cat, but he kept the farm free of rodents and kept away other cats that thought to take up residence. He had loved Sharon but didn't give two shits about Steve. Peter walked up to the cat, smelling him benevolently. This is usually the part where the enormous puppy gets bopped on the nose for breaking the cat's personal space, but not this time. Peter was allowed to hunker down next to the cat, bending his fluffy body around the smooth black cat, over the moon at being allowed the contact.

Steve raised his eyebrows.

"I think that might be the strangest thing that happened tonight," he admitted as quietly as he could, a little curious to see if he could get the other to smile again. That, in itself, was a slippery slope.

James smiled a hushed grin that hardly showed his impressively white teeth.

Steve internally sighed. _What have I gotten myself into?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was looking up character ages, and was no one going to tell me that Bucky was originally a FIFTEEN-YEAR-OLD sidekick to Steve?! I do not like that, that makes me uncomfortable for this story, so Buck is 25, Steve is 27 and Clint is 47(his cannon age, I guess, IDK)  
> Yes, both Steve and Bucky have the important women in their lives talk to them in their heads, it's not something to worry about, and they're not going to mentally snap. This is not John seeing Mary in his head, this is a narration of their thought process, and since the women were at least 43% of their impulse control and conscience, it only makes sense that they have a say in the day to day life of the boys. Men. They're older than me but I still think they're little babies. Am I the only one? Probs.  
> I am also not going to apologize for falling into a cliche trap of having Clint and Steve be gunslinger bounty hunters. I will not apologize because I can't think of anything else that works for them.  
> "Every rude word in his lexicon percolated on the tip of his anxious tongue, a piteous and truly pathetic counteraction to the stunning realization that he wasn't completely straight." is a line that I will be using in every gay story that I make, another thing I will not apologize for.  
> NOT EVERY CHAPTER IS JUST GOING TO BE A REPEAT OF THE LAST FROM A DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVE, I JUST THOUGHT A LITTLE EXTRA STEVE WOULD BE NICE.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm sorry, Steve," he blurted out before he could stop himself. The blond giant glanced up from the arm he was attending and raised an eyebrow.  
> "For what?"  
> "For gettin' hurt,"  
> "Not your fault, Buck,"

Of course, it had to be his left arm. _Of course._

He hadn't meant to say ' _ fuck _ ' so loudly, but it was involuntary. The pain shredded through his shoulder and down his arm, spreading across his back and chest like wildfire. It was a stunning sort of pain, the kind that forces everything to leave your mind and feeling, every sense you have stutters out for a second, leaving only the pain.

When Steve had asked him to get the seed bags out of the shed, Buck was certain he had expected him to be able to do it without hurting himself. What Steve failed to understand was that James was possibly the most accident-prone person in the history of the universe. The seed bags were on a chest level shelf in the barn, but the burlap caught on something, and James tugged on the fabric, fingers tangled in the handle, and hell broke loose. Thank every god above that the bag hadn't ripped, just seventy-five pounds of wheat seeds condensed into an anchor, and it was falling on him.

The thud as the bag hit the floorboards shook the barn, but James could hardly hear it. The sickening crunch or his shoulder tearing out of the socket echoed in his head, slamming around like a church bell.

As he stood there, gasping for breath and frantically untangling his hand from the handle of the wheat seed, a part of his brain wondered what had Steve running to him. Maybe it was the thunderous noise, or perhaps the startle goat that bellowed or the ten pigeons that flocked out of the rafters.

_ All this noise will surely wake the devil, _ he couldn't quite remember who said that to him, but it stuttered through his pain addled brain.

Steve skittered into the barn, his hat flopping on the string around his neck.

"Sorry, it was nothin', I just dropped the bag," James scrambled to explain, and he had to physically restrain himself from flinching when Steve walked closer.

"Did you hurt yourself?" he glanced over Bucky, who was cradling his left arm.

"I'll be fine, just pulled somethin' in my shoulder,"

Steve frowned at his arm and worrisome slope of his shoulder.

"You dislocated your shoulder,"

_ Go away, _ was poised on the edge of his tongue, ready to drip the venom onto Steve. He settled with an air of indifference.

"I don't have any money for a doctor; it'll have to heal on its own,"

Steve was still frowning. Polly tutted in Bucky's head, saying that he better stop that because pretty soon it'll be permanent.

"It's not going to heal on its, not until it gets popped back in," he reached out and skimmed his hand over the sloping shoulder and sighed when James inhaled sharply.

"I've fixed a few of these in my day; I think I can give it a shot,"

He didn't give James a chance to respond.

It was a little hard  _ not _ to notice how close Steve was standing, especially now that he was touching James. He smelled like hay and the late May sunshine.

"This is going to hurt, I'm sorry," he apologized, catching James' eye.

_ Oh fuck you and your beautiful blue eyes, _ he snapped back in his mind, but in reality, he just nodded.

"You can handle a little pain, can't you, Buck?" he mused, his left hand pinching the top of his shoulder, hard. With his other hand, he held onto James' wrist, slowly raising it in the air.

A derisive snort left him, and he leveled the blond's look with his own, humming back a response. The retort that was ready to leave his mouth was a bit too risky than what was called for at the moment.

The hand on his wrist was gentle as he ever so carefully lifted his straight arm, a little frown marring his brown eyebrows.

Polly squealed in his mind, jumping up and down in her little high heels and clapping like an excited child, honey curls bouncing.  _ "Oh, Jamie, he's just absolutely perfect!" _

He promptly told her to be quiet, and that  _ actively trying not to hurt him _ was  ** not ** a sign of romance. 

James hissed out a steady breath the higher his arm was lifted, the pain squirmed and stabbed at his shoulder. Steve mumbled out an apology, and James refused to close his eyes. He focused them on the cut of Steve's jaw and the ticking muscle there and the way his beard was actually three different shades of blond and brown mixed together.

Slowly, his arm was utterly level to his chin and still under the support of Steve's callused hand when it snapped back into place.

Bucky had prided himself on not being a little bitch when he was in pain. He traveled up the Mississippi river all alone with second and third-degree burns covering most of his arm, growing up on the streets of a roughly hewn city had yielded him more black eyes and broken ribs than he could count, and never once did he say a word about it.

So the fact that he could have his shoulder slide back into place after being violently wrenched out with only letting out a small gasp, it was a satisfactory reaction.

Steve raised an impressed eyebrow as he poked and prodded his back and chest, checking that it wouldn't pop right back out. It wasn't better, the dull ache had now taken over most of his chest and arm, but it didn't threaten to double him over and dissolve into the ground like before.

"You ever hurt your arm like that before?" Steve asked.

"Nah,"

"Then how aren't you beggin' me for a drink right now to numb the pain?"

Buck shrugged his right shoulder. "Not that bad, I guess,"

"You're gonna need a sling for that arm," Steve commented, not believing that it didn't hurt. He was starting to wonder just exactly  _ who _ he had invited to live with him.

"I can handle it," Bucky cupped his elbow in his hand and started to turn away from Steve.

"I know, just let me do it anyway," Steve said, and on anyone else, it would have been a demand. Bucky hardly thought that Steve could ground an order out of his mouth; every word was too gentle for that. It sort of pissed Bucky off a little.

"You know, you don't hafta' be so nice to me all the time," he watched as Steve rummaged around the barn and found an old feed sack that hadn't been torn up yet. The open barn doors allowed the mid-morning light to pour in, and James primely ignored the way it lit up Steve's face.

He padded back to Bucky and ripped up the sack, his voice steady.

"James," Steve sighed, "before you came here, when was the last time someone did something for you? When was the last time that someone was kind to you because they wanted to help, simply because they didn't want you to be hurtin'?

His mouth popped open at the question, and he fought back a rude response. Steve was looking at him so earnestly; it was sort of hard to look at directly.

"I don't think that matters-,"

"When was the last time?" he interrupted, still considerate as ever.

Bucky fumed for a second, wishing he had been left alone to deal with his problem by himself instead of being subjected to this uncomfortable topic.

"I don't remember," he mumbled when Steve made it evident that he wasn't going to let it go.

Steve nodded.

"So, are you goin' to let me wrap your arm up now?"

"Are you gonna let me walk away?" Bucky countered. Steve's face broke into a massive grin, showing off his bright white teeth and made his eyes crinkle at the edges.

_ Shut up, Polly, _ he chastised in his mind before she could even say anything.

"Be thankful my ma isn't here or she would have been force-feeding you and smothering you in hugs since the moment you stepped foot on the farm, I'm just trying to wrap up your arm," he joked.

James offered up half of a smile while he realized the last time he had hugged his own mother was when he was about five years old. He kept that to himself.

Steve was standing close again, maybe a  _ bit _ closer than what was necessary, but James forced the idea from his head. Whatever Polly or Claudelle or Natasha and his wicked imagination were coming up with in his head, it was a one-way street. Aurora Run was a small farming community, not the hedonistic New Orleans; he figured things would be a bit more strict in this town. It didn't matter that Steve smelled like pine trees and fresh rain or that James had heard him sing Peggy to sleep the night before, or that he couldn't really cook worth a damn but tried hard anyway. It also didn't matter that it was getting harder to think about walking away when he saved up enough money the longer he stayed here.

"You're bleeding," Steve said, concern lacing his tone.

James snapped out his own intrusive thought bubble and glanced down at his cradled arm. Sure enough, a small bloom of red was dashed across his borrowed shirt's sleeve. Upon seeing the blood, he could suddenly feel the sharpness of the cut on his arm re-opening.

"Oh, it's nothing," he scrambled to cover it up, but Steve had retaken hold of his wrist to wrap his arm, and he hadn't let go.

"How did you cut your arm but not your shirt?" He questioned, oblivious to James' struggle to get away.

"It's really nothin', just a little scratch, I can take care of it on my own," he covered the blood with his hand, glancing up at Steve's face, which was a bit closer than he remembered.

"Didn't we just talk about this?" he frowned. "I said I wanted to help you, now dammit, lemme help," though his words implied anger, he was just as collected as he had been the whole time. Bucky's stomach clenched when he thought about the sort of rage Steve could be capable of producing. Best  _ not _ try and find out.

Now, this was a hard decision to make. The last person to see the burnt up flesh of his arm had been a doctor, and he only cared about his professional opinion; he hadn't dared showed the girls before leaving either. Natasha had a questionable past, and he wouldn't put it passed her to arrange for the people that had hurt him to... disappear.

Showing Steve his arm might be opening more problems than he bargained for. He might get pissed because he has a lame arm and could help around less on the farm because of it, he might kick him out because of the possibility of another doctor's visit and the inevitable payment.

All of these horrible thoughts got twisted up and tangled in James' mind while he was still looking at Steve, whose frown was increasing.

"I'm not goin' to hurt you, James, really, I'm not," he offered, suddenly a bit worried about what he was asking him to do.

Bucky sighed, ignoring the screaming alarms in his head while he popped the button on his cuff and carefully pulled back the sleeve.

Steve didn't say a word as the twisted burn scars became visible, he didn't blink or recoil while James pushed the sleeve higher, exposing more of the melted looking skin. The cut had bled through the bandage, and James was a little afraid of taking it off.

Steve seemed to remember why he was there and casually brushed Bucky's hand away and undid the bandage himself.

James' head was racing so fast he wondered how it hadn't taken off down the road independently from his body.

_ Well, _ Natasha crooned from the corner of his mind, cigarillo smoke curling from her scarlet lips,  _ this is an intriguing twist in the day, isn't it, Jamie love? _

James had to steady his breath after almost saying _ 'shut up, Nat,' _ out loud.

Attentively, the bandage was pulled away, and the cut was examined. It had only re-opened a little, nothing that required panic. James could practically hear all the questions that Steve wanted to ask him, but the blond giant kept his mouth shut and rewrapped the arm after cleaning it, his large hands somehow capable of the most gentle actions. He buttoned the cuff back together and was now wrapping the feed sack around Bucky for the sling. Steve looped it gently around his chest and back, taking great care to lay his arm into the sling without upsetting his shoulder. James was having a hard time breathing correctly.

Bucky's body shivered with the kindness he was being shown. He wanted to recoil from it, to reject the soft touch like he was about to be struck, but he forced himself to stay still. He could tell himself that good people still existed, but it was harder in application.

"I'm sorry, Steve," he blurted out before he could stop himself. The blond giant glanced up from the arm he was attending and raised an eyebrow.

"For what?"

"For gettin' hurt,"

"Not your fault, Buck,"

"Yeah, but now you don't have any help sowin' the fields because I was a jackass and hurt my arm, and really, I get it if I can't stay here anymore, I understand,"

"Buck, I'm not goin' to throw you out because you hurt your arm,"

"Well," James was a little exacerbated. "Why not?"

_ Those damn eyes, _ James cursed them when they crinkled a little bit at the edges when Steve looked at him.

"Have you ever sowed a field before? Kept track of how many handfuls you throw in each row, figured out how many bags it'll take to cover up the acreage you plan on using this year?"

"No," he replied, a little belligerent.

"Well then, how badly would it hurt your pride if you were to stay here and look after Peggy and everyone else while I'm out in the fields?" the words pulled a small cringe from the man's mouth as if to apologize for the suggestion.

Three full seconds passed before James fully processed what had been asked.

"Would it hurt my pride any to spend the day minding an adorable eighteen-month and making sure the cat and dog don't start another war?" The more he spoke, the wider a grin Steve gave him. He kept the teasing tone. "And maybe then I can cook and make something edible?"

A laugh, clear and bright, was directly entirely at Bucky and warmed him nicely. Oh, how easy it was to want to make him laugh all the time. Yet another slippery slope he was trying to scale.

"So I take it you won't be hurtin' about that?"

"No, sir," Bucky shook his head, allowing a bit of a smug smile for himself. He would never admit just how relieved he was, but it was a little embarrassing. He knew he was strong enough to help with the sowing, he wasn't precisely a trembling waif, but the idea of keeping house was so much better.

Keeping house. For Steve.

_ Oh dear God,  _ he said to himself, pushing the thought to the edge of his mind.

How ever this turns out for him, it's going to be interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is NOT a trembling waif in this fic. He's an adult man, and though he's not the terrifyingly shredded 'Winter Soldier', he's really not that much of a twink either. He's proportioned like Bucky before the war.  
> Also, how come these stories never come out of my head like I want them to? It's sort of frustrating.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was the first time in twenty years that he felt this safe and content

It's not that Steve was a lousy cook; it's just that not every meal needs to be bacon, beans, and bread.  
Before Zola had deemed him old enough to start working in the front rooms of Hydra, James had earned his keep in the kitchen first. Frigga was a fantastic cook, doting on him as much as she could in the hours she spent at the den. Bucky hadn't loved cooking as much as he loved the attention she would give him, petting his hair when no one was looking and letting him lick off the spoons when she was done mixing.  
James stood in the kitchen, staring at the flowery, well-worn apron hanging on the hook. It must have been Sharon's, a smattering of flour still dashed across the front of it.   
He took stock of the kitchen, quietly digging in the cabinets and rummaging in the warming oven. He found a shriveled piece of unidentifiable meat on a plate and some genuinely ancient carrots.  
Peter was summoned with a click of his tongue, and the evidence vanished in a swallow. When Peter's big round eyes yielded him no more food, he sprawled out on the woven rug, next to a sleeping Peggy. James had been told that she crashed wherever she wants, and as long the surface was vaguely horizontal, she'd be asleep in seconds. Her position of choice today was sprawled out on the woven rug in front of the fireplace, an arm slung over her face, a blanket she pulled off a chair tangled around herself.  
She'd be out for hours. She was impossibly adorable.  
James couldn't remember the last time he fell asleep in an open room, people coming and going as they pleased. The thought made his skin crawl.  
With his left arm snugged up tight against his body and useless, his options for a meal were limited severely. The hand that poked out of the sling was operational but stuck close to him.  
Peter stayed with Peggy, but Loki was bound by no such moral obligations and followed James outside and down the solid wooden steps of the root cellar. The day hadn't been hot, but the temperature change was immediate and calming, the cold dark earth blocking out the heat of the sun. They were still running on the winter supply, none of the spring crops were planted yet. There was a relieving amount of food on the shelves, clear glass jars of green beans, carrots, peas, and plums, crates of sawdust packed with apples and potatoes, turnips, onions, and beets, though dwindling, smelled perfectly fine sitting in straw lined boxes.  
Loki offered not a shred of help where he bathed himself sitting on top of a pumpkin, eyes glittering an unsettling glacial blue. James grumbled at the cat, shoving potatoes and onions into a bag before making his way up the stairs.  
"You better hurry, I'm not waiting for you," he called out, and yet he still stood there and waited as the cat slowly sauntered up the wooden steps at a tauntingly slow pace, curling his tail around Bucky's ankle as he walked by.  
Peggy had rolled over in her sleep, and now she laid on top of Peter completely, her tiny body dwarfed by the size of the dog, who was happily being held hostage.  
It took three times as long to wash and peel and cut the vegetables than it would have with two arms, and by the time everything was in the soup pot, including the salted pork he had to wrestle out of a bin in the smokehouse, Bucky was nearly regretting agreeing to this job.   
With a sigh, he heaved the soup pot into his right arm and made his way outside. It would get too damn hot in the house for him to start a fire in the cookstove, an outside fire would have to do.  
The pit in front of the house already had the tripod over it, thank god because Bucky was too tired to look for it.   
More agonizing minutes were spent coaxing a fire to life, and filling a pail of water from the well and dumping it into a pot.  
A year ago, if you told James Barnes that he was going to be making soup over a fire halfway in the middle of the Illinois wilderness while keeping an ear open for a little girl he was minding, he'd laugh straight in your face.   
The sun was making its way west across the sky, throwing the world in glimmering shades of gold and orange, lighting up the barn and dappling the green in the trees, highlighting the beauty of the small stead.  
Steve walked the fields, heavy bag of seeds worn across his chest, throwing handfuls of seed in calculated pitches. He'd come in when the sun was touching the horizon, and by then the food would be ready.   
James let himself think about what his girls were doing as he walked back to the house. He fantasized that maybe Claudelle was working in a theatre, singing her heart out for a stage as she had always wanted. Natasha never had dreams like that; Bucky wasn't sure she could quit _the life_ even if she wanted to. For Polly, he wished her a husband, one that wouldn't ever let the world hurt her again and kiss her when he came home from work.  
Peggy finally woke up as he was scraping the food scraps into the slop pail for the chickens.  
She sat up and rubbed her eyes, tiny mouth opening in an adorable yawn.   
James smiled and was about to greet her when her eyes widened comically, and she shot to her feet.  
"Uh-oh, Bucky,"  
"Uh-oh, what?" James frowned, hesitating with the bucket in his hand.  
"UH-OH, POTTY!" she squealed, dancing around a nervous Peter.  
"Right now, potty?"  
"YES!" she squawked.  
"Shit," James grunted to himself, dropping everything and lunging for the little girl. She didn't weigh a thing as he took off out the door, her tiny hands holding onto his shirt as he bolted to the outhouse. Even in the dire situation, she felt the hilarity of the moment and giggled as they ran across the lawn.  
She wriggled out of his hold as he set her down in front of the small building, slamming the door in his face.  
"Do you need help?" he tried, leaning against the door.  
"No." she replied curtly.  
"Alright," He walked a few feet away and settled down in the grass, listening for his name. Peter sat down next to him, heavy head resting on his knee, big brown eyes scanning his own.   
"I think I like it here," he whispered the secret to the dog, who thumped his tail against the grass.  
He wasn't sure why it was a secret, or who he was hiding it from, but he was scared to say it too loud. This was the first time in twenty years that he felt this safe and content, and the paranoia, though it wasn't gone entirely, it had worked its way down from his throat where it had been living for decades, allowing for him to breathe.  
A cool breeze from the north curled into the yard, filling James' lungs with the clarity, chasing the remnants of panic from his throat.  
The outhouse door creaked open, and a rather groggy Peggy walked out and held her arms up for James.  
"Up," she sighed, crawling into his lap. Her tiny body was the perfect size to nuzzle up into his neck, one chubby little arm around his throat, the other carding through his hair.  
"I like it here," he told the little girl as they watched the yard, sitting together in the grass. "I think I wanna stay. Is that a good idea?"  
She sighed, a perfect, small noise against his cheek, and she rested her head against his shoulder.  
"I think it's a good idea too,"  
James let himself hope that it was a good idea, even as his heart balked at the concept.  
He wasn't so broken that he couldn't hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Juicier chapters coming up, I know this one was a little drab.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky POV

Sun up to sundown for almost three straight days; Steve spent the day outside. James had never sowed a field, never by himself and certainly not several acres. Steve would come back each night as the sun was taunting the horizon, lined with dirt and stiff as a board, hardly washing his hands and eating before collapsing on the rug before the crackling hearth.

Peggy seemed to take this as an invitation to clamber onto his chest and animatedly tell him about her day, never a single word of it understandable. The night before was no exception, and James watched on from the kitchen for a bit too long. 

Steve, exhausted and hardly able to keep his eyes open, allowed Peggy to dance her ragdoll across his face while she sang, sitting cross-legged on his chest. Peter was curled around Steve's head, passionately licking his sweaty hair. Even Loki tried his hand at affection, and by affection, he was accepting the presence of others in his space and not mauling them for getting to close to his basket.

The night didn't feel so dark anymore.

See, James didn't want to see any of that. He didn't want to see the adoration practically shining from Steve's face as he smiled lazily at the little girl singing him gibberish songs. Bucky didn't care to listen to the gentle way he talked to her about her day, lips quirking as her stories got louder and more comical, throwing her tiny arms in the air in exclamation. 

He didn't want to hear Steve's brief story, almost whispered in his deep, exhausted voice that rumbled quietly through the house, about how he helped a baby bird get back to its nest while he was outside, or that he did a funny voice for Peggy's doll that had her giggling like a loon. 

He didn't want to know any of this; he didn't want his stomach to do the little flip it was doing right now, he tried to deny the expanding feeling in his chest.

But it all happened anyway.

* * *

Peggy sat on a tree stump protected by a dopey Peter while Bucky ducked down into the dusty chicken coop. Letting all the hens out before collecting eggs was a life-altering discovery for sure, but that little rooster was the devil incarnate.

Ignoring his little beady-eyed stare, James rummaged in the nesting boxes, giving the brooding hen an affection pat even when she warbled at him in a warning.

Straightening the eggs in the wire basket so they wouldn't attempt an abstract painting on the ground, Bucky kicked out his foot at the rooster running at him with his wings flapping. He caught the little fucker straight in the chest and sent him flying at least five feet away.

Peggy laughed maniacally, clapping her little hands in delight. "AGAIN!"

Shaking his head, James sidled up next to her with a smirk. She must not like the rooster very much either.

"Ready to go to the house, Madam?" Bucky offered his right arm to her, which she interpreted as ' _allow me to carry you,_ ' and slung her arms around his neck instead.

"Thor," she said matter of factly, chubby finger pointed across the yard to the hulking beast munching on hay behind the wooden fence.

"Yeah?" Bucky asked, slightly miffed that the little girl was eager to touch an animal that he was still wary of.

She nodded.

"As you wish, darlin',"

Like every other animal on the farm, Thor was positively enamored with Peggy, pink tongue lolling out of his mouth and slobbering all over her palms. The little girl let out a shriek of joy when his massive nose puffed a blast of horse scented air in her face.

James pretended the reason he wasn't petting the chestnut stallion was that his only working arm was too busy holding up Peggy, and not because he wasn't totally convinced that the horse wasn't going to rip his hand clean off with its teeth.

Peggy crooned to the horse, no doubt telling him how good of a boy he was in her own little language, but Buck still had his apprehensions.

* * *

Shuffling a deck of cards with one hand was definitely something that James had ever come across in the decade he spent dealing cards, each movement wasn't as fluid and continuous as he was used to them being. His arm was getting better a bit faster than he thought it would, and he chalked it up to an identifiable sleep schedule and a proper diet of non-suspicious food. Every night in the privacy of his room, he carefully stretched out the shaking limb, redressing the now scabbed over cut. He wondered if he would get feeling back in the skin of his arm, the only spot that ever seemed to have any sort of sensation was the cut.

Living in the dregs of Lousiana, he had seen his fair share of bottle bombs, he'd be lying if he said he hadn't thrown a couple, but he had never wondered what happens when you throw it at a person. A rat, sure, he had watched a singed rat or two scuttle into the sewers, but never a person. 

He didn't have to think about it now, because he knew. He knew that when glass bottles shatter, they cut, and apparently, they don't heal. Gin was a hell of a thing to get burned by, the devouring spirits gobbled up his shirt and some of his hair, roasting his arm like a suckling pig.

Shoving the memory of the fire and the heat, the _searing_ pain, and everything about it out of his mind, Bucky went back to the cards balanced in his right hand.

Peggy didn't seem to mind that his left arm was hideously burnt and dreadfully numb; she didn't care that his shuffling was a bit clumsy with only one hand, the tricks enchanted her. She especially loved the one where he seemingly pulled the card from her ear. 

Stealing a deck of cards from Hydra was a bit cathartic, even though they had the serpent printed on the back of them, practically zapping him with anxiety every time he glanced down at them.

His arm wasn't the only thing taking its time to heal.

Bucky was halfway through his longwinded explanation of euchre to the fascinated little girl, when he heard boots thumping up the porch steps.

Blue eyes flicking to Peter, who was still sprawled out on the kitchen floor from licking their breakfast plates clean, he sighed in annoyance at the one hell of a guard dog.

Steve's head popped up through the open half of the dutch door, and Bucky considered somewhere in the back of his mind if teaching a two-year-old euchre was inappropriate. It wasn't like he was teaching her how to _cheat_ , he'd have to wait until she was at least four to teach her intricacies of that particular art. So he decided his innocence and stayed on the floor in front of her on the braided rug, straightening his posture but not turning around as Steve kicks off his boots outside and opens the bottom half of the door.

"Stevey," Peggy calls out, holding up her hand of cards for him to see.

"Are you gambling?" he asked incredulously, pausing in the doorway.

"No," Bucky responded, just as Peggy shouted out an excited _'_ _YES!'_

James turned his head over his shoulder to explain, only half the sentence leaving his mouth before it died in his throat. "I'm just teaching her euchre-"

Working in a whorehouse for years on end, James wasn't really a stranger to the human body. He couldn't be, was forced to be. And yet, here he was, caught so unaware by Steve that he couldn't form words.

His shirt was utterly filthy, and more importantly, _not on his body._

The first impression he had of Steve was that he was tall, broad, and beautiful. If he had known how _deathly_ accurate his first observation had been, he wondered if he would have come so eagerly to the farm. 

Life on a farm had either been very kind or very hard on Steve, depending on how you looked at him, and Bucky couldn't look anywhere else. James knew for a fact that the stress of his life didn't look that good across his body. Corded muscle wrapped around Steve's torso and chest like armor, the sharp cut of his abdomen disappearing under the waist of his trousers. The fact that he was still wearing suspenders was causing Bucky _extreme_ rage, and he didn't know why. Maybe it was because he should look ridiculous and didn't even though James wanted him to look stupid. A brutal, palm-sized red scar bloomed on his side, spiderwebbing out and gouged looking, almost distorting the carved lines of his stomach, but not quite.

All of this happened in less than three seconds, and Bucky forcibly tore his eyes away from Steve's body and up to his face, and he downright ignored the staggering breadth of his shoulders. His neck was sprayed in mud; hands hastily washed off outside.

Steve either didn't notice the bewilderment happening, not so secretly, in James or he didn't care. There was no helping the heat that crept up Bucky's neck to his cheeks.

"Euchre?" He raised a dark blond eyebrow at him. "Why not start with blackjack or poker?" he teased. 

"I'm teaching her life skills," Bucky snapped back with a little more force than he intended, turning his back to Steve so he wouldn't have to look at the distraction that he was doing _nothing_ to cover.

"I think being able to dress herself would be more beneficial of a skill right now," he joked, still not going anywhere.

Something sparked in Bucky's chest, mischievous and a bit petulant, and it burst from him before he could stop it.

"You want to talk about Peggy being able to dress herself?" Bucky turned around fully, forcing himself away from a defensive position, draping his right arm over his knee, meeting Steve's look with his own carefully constructed, partially rude expression. "She's not the one standing half-naked in the doorway,"

 _Careful, Jaimie,_ Claudette warned in his mind, plush lips curling into a vixen smile. _Remember the last time you played with fire?_

Except, this didn't feel like playing with fire, there was no razor edge of danger pressing against his throat. This was smooth and clean, nothing to get caught on or trip over.

A surprised laugh escaped Steve's mouth as his eyes widened and glanced down at the shirt in his hands.

"I thought I could get a hold of that damn Jersey calf, but she was a tad quicker than me," he held up the shirt that when he had left the house that morning, was off white. Now, it was brown from cuff to collar.

"I am not washing that," Bucky blurted, pointing to the monstrosity of manure and mud bunched in Steve's hand. "Don't even think of asking,"

Steve laughed, a booming and almost reckless sound. Peggy laughed the same way, so Bucky deduced that Sharon would have made them all a perfect trio.

In the few days that Bucky had been spending most of his time looking after the more domestic things and Peggy, there were things that Steve never asked him to do. James did his own laundry, pitching in with Peggy's simply because he couldn't think of a reason not to help. Steve never asked Bucky to mend the clothes he ripped almost daily or scrub the dishes. And the only reason James helped bathe Peggy was because she hollered for him to come to see her sudsy hair and then insisted that he would be the one to comb it out when she finally allowed Steve to lift her squirming self from the water.

"Oh Stevey," Peggy shuffled up in front of Steve with a wrinkled perfect little nose at the mud-splattered across Steve's neck. "Yucky,"

"Yucky," James echoed, unable to keep the smirk off his mouth even though he was actually trying.

Steve's eyes narrowed, and for a second, Bucky saw him consider throwing the shirt at him but instead tossed it out the still-open door onto the grass.

A growl ripped from Steve's throat, scaring Bucky and Peggy both as he pretended to swipe at the little girl with his filthy hands that had been hastily washed.

Peggy squealed, spinning her wobbly body on her heel and fled, Steve's socks sliding on the floor as he scrambled after her.

Peter jumped up at the commotion, tail wagging as he chased after them both, his yips adding to the hiccuping giggles falling from Peggy like sunshine. She barreled across the tiny house, frantically laughing as she beelined for James, crashing into his chest and tried to hide in his hold. On instinct, he wrapped his right arm around her, holding her closer as Steve stalked nearer.

She buried her head into Bucky's neck with a screech when she heard the grating growl from Steve's chest. Bucky swallowed hard, ignoring the shivers that shot down his back at the sound, and he managed not to turn inside out when Steve's dangerously powerful body was close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin as he leaned in and snatched a screaming Peggy from his arm. She was nothing but a doll in his grasp as he rose to his full height, wincing when she yanked on his hair while he blew raspberries on her stomach, Peter's front paws wrapped around his waist in an attempt of getting in on the affection.

A month ago, James would have been clambering away from the proximity of someone as imposing as Steve, hell, a week ago he would have been on his feet and backing away.

But now, as he sat on the floor with Steve looming over him not a foot away, no alarms shrieked in his head, the fear didn't claw at his throat, no panic crawled across his skin.

 _Be careful, Jaimie,_ Claudette crooned again in his mind. _Remember what happened the last time you played with fire?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the conception idea for the whole story. Before it was Bucky and Steve, it was a hot pioneer farmer flustering another farmer by being shirtless.  
> Steve POV next chapter.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve POV

Five months before he needed to come home, five months before Sharon died, Steve met a crazy fur trapper named Peter Quil. He hadn't had a bounty on him, Steve and Clint had stumbled on his camp on accident late at night in the middle of winter way up north in Wisconsin, freezing cold and exhausted. Peter, of course, came out of his cabin, waving his gun and screaming, naked as the day he was born. 

It took a while to calm him down enough to have him put the gone down, and then more time to convince him to put on pants.

He let them sleep in the barn, and he opened up to them almost instantly. Peter was easily one of the craziest people Steve had ever met, and he had a pet raccoon that waddled after him where ever he went, and he talked to the coon more than he did the humans.

When it was more of a reasonable temperature to go outside, Peter had promptly shoved a wriggling puppy into Steve's arms and grinned toothily at his confusion.

"His name is Peter,"

"I can't take care of a puppy right now,"

"He likes carrots and belly-rubs," Quil ignored him, stooping down and throwing the raccoon over his shoulder. Rocket made a swipe for the buttons on Steve's coat before Peter was gone, leaving a shocked Steve holding a squirming puppy already the size of his hat and a deeply amused Clint watching all of this happen.

"I assume we're going to have to make a stop in Aurora run?" Clint smirked as the puppy happily tried to stick its tongue up Steve's nose.

Steve went home for Christmas early that year, Peggy was hardly old enough to crawl on her own, so she didn't appreciate the already thirty-pound lump of wiggling tail that always walked on top of her.

Steve stayed for a few weeks, and he was the first one to notice the change in Sharon. She'd always been sharp as a tack, her marks in school were nothing less than perfect, and Joseph had been the only man in town that hadn't been too intimidated by her intelligence to pursue her. So when she started misplacing things and forgetting simple tasks, Steve began to worry. So, he sent Clint a telegraph to say he'd stay for a few more weeks, and that turned into a few months when he found her in the middle of the creek one night, waist-deep in the frozen swells in nothing but her nightgown, looking lost.

When the doctor said he could do nothing about the seizures, and the doctor in the next town over said he couldn't help with the crippling headaches, and the doctor five hours away said he was sorry, but the tremors couldn't be cured, Steve telegraphed Clint. The hired gun was in Aurora Run by the next sunset, and he helped Steve sow the fields and plant the crops, always there to silently hand his friend a bottle of rye while he watched the life drain from his sister's eyes.

Clint had to leave again after three weeks; the crimes of immoral men in the world didn't stop because they weren't there to catch them.

The third and last time Steve telegraphed Clint was when he needed his best friend to make sure he didn't fall to his knees with a baby in his arms while the town lowered his little sister into the ground.

Steve remembered all of this unwillingly as he polished the pearl handle of the revolver Clint had pressed into his hand when he had left a few days after the funeral. His daddy had given it to him when his ma died, and it had kept him safe for all these years, he figured it was Steve's turn for some of that protection.

Three brilliantly redheaded children bounded past the open barn doors yelling and shouting where he had been reminiscing, and he shoved the gun into the holster at his hip where it had lived comfortably for the past few months. Old habits die hard, and this particular one was simply refusing to drown.

Since Steve was getting better at the whole homesteading and child-rearing, Wanda's visits had been less frequent, and less somber each time. She had shown up that morning with her four children in the hackney pulled buggy, demanding that he let them help around the farm. Steve hadn't realized how much needed to be done until Wanda sent her children off with a list of chores a mile long, all of them bouncing off in determination.

Now, he stood in the barn and stared at a gun that hadn't been fired in months, and the ache to hear the ear-splitting crack burrowed in his chest. He had ignored the cravings for a while, he hadn't itched for a fistfight for a long time, never needed the sweet recoil of a rifle nestled in his shoulder, and now it was crowding his mind like a bartender with the last drop of whiskey.

The gate to the garden clacked shut, Gus and Ellie got to work ripping up all of the weeds from the freshly plotted ground, even though they were so young, they minded the plants that were supposed to be there and went after the pigweed with a vengeance. Thomas, a boy too confident for his own good, attempted to walk across the yard, thinking that the rooster wouldn't attack him. Steve bit back a laugh when the frenzied poultry flew after him, catching the boy in the shins. Thomas howled and kicked him down.

Peter sulked at him from his bed on the porch as Steve toed off his boots next to him outside. The beast had been sneaking into the house more and more, but Wanda wouldn't have it when she was over. Steve shrugged at the dog, having no way to deny Wanda that he _didn't_ smell like a barnyard.

The stove was roaring hot, pots and pans already lining the top of it, a bouncing Peggy with a perfect bow in her hair jumped across the house to greet Steve, making frog noises as she did so.

Bucky stood in the center of the room, balancing his lithe body on a chair as he wiped the dust off the ceiling. It hadn't taken very long for Wanda to put him to work. He glanced at Steve over his shoulder from his precarious perch, both of them immediately reminded of the week and a half prior when Steve had walked in without a shirt.

They both looked away quickly.

It hadn't been a conscious thought on Steve's part; he just needed a new shirt. That calf was a little shit, slipping out of his grasp like that, landing him with a face full of questionable mud. He hadn't realized that perhaps his ideology of _'partial nudity is not a problem'_ would not be a universal one. On the open range with Clint, there had been no room for shyness, they had been through rough towns and wrestled with rougher men. Bodies had never made Steve uncomfortable, but from the way James' eyes widened when he walked in the door, he guessed he was the only one that thought that.

He should have moved quickly after that, rushing to the washroom and wiping the dirt off his face, then he should have taken the stairs two at a time to get to his room, and he should have buttoned it all the way up to his neck before descending the stairs.

That isn't even close to what actually happened. Of course, Bucky had been teaching his niece some sort of gambling game. He had taken to Peggy like a duck to water, and Steve was deeply thankful for it, but this had him rolling his eyes.

There wasn't a reason that he had stayed put instead of dealing with the problem literally in his hands. He told himself that he didn't care that Bucky was looking only at his face, and he didn't care that he sort of wanted him to look elsewhere.

Except, he did care.

 _Hopeless,_ Sharon had smirked at him from her lazy stretch across the kitchen table, the cigar clenched between her delicate teeth unlit. 

She had always called him that when he pined after things he couldn't have, that new horse the neighbor got, the new rifle in Happy's window display, the pretty girl he oggled at in church.

For once, he had allowed himself to make an excuse to get closer, to almost touch but not quite.

"Thomas is off to check the fence line for you, Gus and Ellie are tackling the weeds in the garden, and Anna and I are going to make you enough bread to last a month," Wanda narrated from the kitchen, pulling Steve's attention away from his clenched fists he had been staring at. 

"You really don't have to be doing all of this, Wanda, really," Steve started, but Wanda hushed him with a raised finger and a stern look.

"You took care of Sharon for almost six months all by yourself, I can make sure that you and the farm make it through the next winter," she warned and went back to the dough in her hands.

From the corner of his eye, Steve watched Bucky slowly lower his arms from the ceiling. His left arm still hurt him, but not enough for him to use the sling anymore. Steve wanted to ask him about the burn and the cut, and he sort of wanted to run his fingers over the twisted flesh again, but that was barricaded from his mind. 

With almost impossible grace, Bucky slid off the chair and politely carried it back to the table.

Unable to fight the smirk from his mouth at the wideness of Anna's eyes at the show, Steve went to investigate the contents of the pot.

"Where are on earth did you learn to move like that?" Wanda mused, not noticing the pink of her daughter's cheeks. If Steve was right, and he frustratingly right fairly often, Anna was developing her first crush. 

"Oh, um," Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, looking away from Wanda. "Back in New Orleans, some of the women I... worked with, were classically trained in ballet. They taught me some of the movements whenever they got bored," he shrugged like that wasn't a bit of a shocking statement in this tiny town.

"You're a ballerina?" Anna blurted.

James turned a lovely shade of pink.

"NO, no, I'm not a ballerina, not even close. They stopped teachin' me that stuff when I turned thirteen, said it'd turn me into a-" he cut himself off, remembering that he was speaking to an eleven-year-old girl.

"My," Wanda glanced over him with a bit of a playful look. "you are full of surprises, aren't you?"

The devil in James wanted to curl his lip over his teeth and tell her how just much she was right, but he ducked his head instead.

"UNCLE STEVE!" Gus marched up the porch steps; his voice boomed as much as little seven-year-old self could manage. 

"Augustus Maximoff, you will not raise your tone like that in this house," Wanda warned, but it didn't take the vinegar out of the child.

"You gotta hand me that rifle; I'm gonna shoot that damned rooster right now,"

Wanda squawked at the language, but the men couldn't help their laughter. They had been the long-standing victims of that 'damned rooster,' and they understood his pain.

"Gus, I don't think your mom would like me to hand a gun to a little boy," Steve laughed, and Gus bristled at the label of 'little boy.' He whirled to James, who wasn't having an easy time holding back his laughter either.

"Well then, can you shoot the rooster for me then?" he asked indignantly. Between his floppy red hair and countless freckles, he was tough to say no to. _Oh, he is going to be a hell of an adult_ , Bucky thought.

"Sorry, kid. I won't be any use to you with a gun," Bucky shrugged.

Gus huffed. "I'm taking the shovel out of the barn, and I'm sorry Uncle Steve, but I might kill your rooster," he warned, marching right back out of the house, Peter unsuccessful in his attempt at slipping through the door.

"I have no idea how that is my child," Wanda stared after him, her equally red hair tied back behind her equally freckled face.

"Oh come now, Wanda," Steve chuckled. "He's practically you at that age,"

"I never threatened to kill a rooster," she argued.

"No," Steve admitted, sparkling grin growing, "but you did put that fox-snake in Jimmy Deaton's hat when we were eleven,"

"Mama, you didn't," Anna's mouth dropped open.

"He was such a rude little boy," Wanda defended, scowling at Steve, the bread dough in her hands taking the brunt of her residual anger. "He bullied you too, Steven,"

"He thought it was a water moccasin," Steve looked downright mischievous.

"And that's on him for being stupid enough not to know the difference," she slammed the dough on the table, blowing back a piece of her hair with exasperation. "And we need to stop talking about my youthful transgressions," she raised an auburn brown at Steve, who backed off.

Wanda harrumphed and turned her attention to Bucky.

"James dear," Bucky warmed at the endearment embarrassingly quick. "Were you being truthful when you said you aren't good with a gun or was that for little Gussy's benefit?"

All the eyes in the room turned back to him, and he wanted to shrink away. He remembered back in Louisiana; he'd have twelve dozen eyes on him at any given second, people that didn't really like him, the very same _armed_ people that would shoot him without hesitation when they learned that he was cheating them out of their money. And never once did he slip up or make a mistake.

"A bit of both," he admitted, shoulders coming up to ears. 

"How so?"

"I can shoot a gun just fine, but it wouldn't be very good for anyone involved,"

"Ahh," Wanda nodded, sliding the perfect dome of dough into a bowl, a daisy embroidered towel on top of it. "That's how Victor was when I met him, useless with anything that wasn't a printing press or a pen."

Anna smiled as though she could attest to this.

Steve frowned throughout the exchange. Wanda knew that look and sighed.

"Speak, Steve. You'll wrinkle frowning like that,"

He sighed. "Who taught you how to shoot, Wanda?" He already knew this information.

"My daddy,"

"And what was his reason for teaching you how?"

"Said that the pioneer land was too dangerous a place not to know how to handle a gun,"

"And you taught Victor?" Steve had been privy to that lesson; Victor was still an abysmal shot even under the wonderful tutelage of Wanda.

"Yes,"

"And you'll teach the kids when they're old enough?"

"Yes," she rolled her eyes. "Steve, get on with it,"

"Buck, I think you're going to have to learn how to shoot," he didn't sound apologetic, even though the phrasing of the sentence might have allowed him to be. He wasn't sorry, he wouldn't be doing this if it wasn't necessary.

James nodded, suddenly a bit fidgety. Steve ignored the length of his fingers and how smoothly his body had moved off the chair.

 _Hopeless,_ Sharon teased, a ghostly smile stretched on her mouth.

* * *

The clearing was the exact same spot that Steve learned how to shoot when he was ten years old, the old row of bottles still on the log. The rifle his dad had him use was ancient when Steve used it, and it now lived mounted in the barn.

The rifle in his hands now was only a few years old, enough to be broken in and well polished with frequent usage. He didn't want to tell Bucky why it had eight little lines etched in the stock of it, they hadn't talked about their past lives, and those eight little lines wouldn't be a good start.

Loki, of all creatures, had followed them out to the clearing, acting like it he wasn't part of their group at all. He found himself a nice little patch of sun on top of a big rock and settled his scrappy little body down into it; glacial eyes parted just enough to watch them.

"So, how much do you know?" Steve asked, handing the gun over to Bucky. He looked like he wanted nothing less than to hold the weapon, balancing it between gingerly placed fingers.

He glanced up at Steve, even though they were practically the same height. There was something behind his clear blue eyes that had Steve faltering. James was holding onto the gun as he'd hold onto a corporeal nightmare, waiting for it to bite him.

Whatever Bucky was looking for in Steves's eyes, he must not have found it because he steeled himself and held the rifle closer. With a sterile voice, he labeled off all the parts of the gun.

"Muzzle, stock, butt, barrel," his voice hardened a little, "trigger," he didn't look at Steve as he slid the bullet into the chamber with a resounding _clack_.

Steve held his surprise in his shoulders, offering only the barest of raised eyebrows in return.

"By all means," he gestured to the row of whiskey bottles and mason jars that lined the deteriorating log.

Squaring his shoulders like a good little soldier, James lifted the rifle to his shoulder in one smooth movement, cheek resting on the stock as he stared down the barrel.

The bullet exploded out of the gun like a clap of thunder, filling the air with the noise that slammed into Steve's chest like a violent hug.

It was a little perverted that he had missed that noise; it was practically an abusive relationship. The gun did nothing but challenge his strict morals of life and death and the consequential weight of both of those things. But here he was, rejoicing in the gravity of it.

James slid the next bullet into place before the muzzle stopped smoking, the next shot cracking just as loud as the last.

Steve watched in what was remarkably close to awe as each of the jars shattered from the bullet passing through their exact center each time. When the last bottle erupted in a shower of glass, James lowered the gun from his shoulder, eyes glazed over. His body bled danger; every line of his body was severe and savage and made Steve a little unsteady the longer he looked.

"You said that you were bad at this," Steve exulted, throwing his hands out.

"No, I said that it wouldn't be good for anyone involved," Bucky met his eye, and Steve was shocked at how _empty_ he looked. He thrust the gun into Steve's grip, right hand reaching up to hover over his left arm.

"What do you mean, you're an amazing shot, Buck," Steve tried being congratulatory again, a little confused.

"I don't like guns," James craned his neck back, scanning the foliage above them, his hair sliding off his shoulders.

 _There it is,_ Steve thought, knowing that the gun had to be the problem, but he couldn't put his finger on the more _pressing_ issue.

"Buck, you remember when you hurt your arm, and I told you that I wasn't goin' to hurt you, and I just wanted to help?" He fiddled with the gun in his hands, thumbs sliding over the worn grooves in the stock.

"Yeah," his eyes were still on the sky, voice low. 

"I still mean it. I'm not going to beat an answer out of you, but I can't help if I don't know _how_ to help."

He cringed at his choice of words, but Sharon was coaxing him on in his mind. She was a sucker for broken things, always trying to fix them up, the donkey with the broken leg that now lived in the cow field right as rain, the stubborn old buggy that looked like hell but now rode smoother than all get out. She would have loved the brokenness inside of James because she would have seen how worth fixing he was.

Bucky leveled his look, the deadly sharpness of his gaze rising the question in Steve once again. _Who exactly did I bring home?_

"I don't like guns," he said again, and _dear god_ , it almost sounded like a plea.

"Alright, James," Steve felt like he had been elbowed in the sternum, he was caught so off guard. He hated seeing James reduced to a hollow plea; he hated seeing the dead look in his eyes.

"You don't have to use them, alright?" He reassured.

Bucky shook his head, "I won't ever let anythin' happen to the farm,"

"I know you won't," Steve consoled, keeping his voice as light as he could, he didn't need to go and offend the poor man.

Bucky nodded, fingers working over the cut on his arm, digging into the spasming muscle.

"Does your arm hurt?" Steve asked tentatively, _stupidly_. He wanted to help so badly, but he had no idea how to do it. 

Bucky let out a sigh like he had been holding it for months. "Only when I think 'bout New Orleans," he didn't smile or offer any sort of camaraderie to the moment, but Steve felt like he was let in on a personal moment. "Then I think about New Orleans more 'cuz my arm hurts, and I'm caught in such a fuckin' stupid loop I almost roll away,"

Steve nods. "I do the same thing with my gunshot,"

"Tha' big nasty mark on your side?" Bucky asks, eyes lingering on Steve's side.

 _Oh, right, you saw that._ Steve pushed back the blush on his cheeks and feigned impassivity.

"Yeah. Almost died in the Utah desert after tracking down a cattle thief across three states and he caught me off guard,"

"What? Did someone take Junebug for a walkabout, and you went after him?" Bucky raised an eyebrow, the joke delighting Steve, who couldn't help his laughter.

"No one in their right mind would take that horrible Jersey, she wouldn't be worth the hassle," he beamed, some part of him wishing that he and James would joke like this more often.

"No, before I came back to the farm, I was, uh, a bounty hunter." He didn't know why the hell he was getting bashful about it now; he was proud that he was a bounty hunter. He had done this world a lot of good, but he found himself getting nervous at the reaction of James. He _had_ almost spent the last decade in a semi perpetual state of violence.

His eyebrows shot to his hairline. "Bounty hunter? Like, with the horse an' the gun an' the fancy hat? Ridin' into towns savin' the day?"

Steve winced. "A little less dramatic than that, but yeah. Bounty hunter."

"And you liked it?" Bucky squinted at him.

"I got ten years of fun and a helluva lot of scars from it, it was time to come home anyway," 

"Tha's why you always carry a gun," Bucky put together, eyeing the pistol at his hip.

"Old habits," Steve excused. James paused for a second before peering at Steve with suspicion.

"A whole decade of bein' suspicious of people, and you let a stranger into yo' house?"

"You're not a bad person, Bucky,"

"You didn't know that!" he retorted. "What would you've done if I was a lunatic?"

Steve sighed, eyes rolling to the sky above them. 

"I definitely wouldn't have brought you home with me, that's for sure,"

Bucky was glowering, and it was intimidating but also something a little more, and it kicked up in Steve's stomach the longer he looked.

So he looked away.

"Oughta throw a ruckus just to teach you a lesson," he grumbled, shaking his head and making his way back to the house.

"You couldn't throw a proper ruckus," Steve teased, following him.

"Steve Rogers, half of my blood came from Bourbon Street, the other half crawled from the French Quarter. I have been _bred_ to riot,"

"Right," Steve grinned wryly.

Bucky tossed him a smile over his shoulder, searing and predatory. "I could show you sometime."

Steve almost swallowed his tongue. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot that Bucky had an accent, my bad.  
> Old-timey musket wounds are BRUTAL, they like, rip you apart.  
> I also forgot halfway through that it is a Steve perspective, and there was a little too much insight into Bucky at the moment, but I don't think you will fault me for it.  
> Wanda is a BAMF. Can you tell that I recently learned what that means?  
> Peace out, bitches.


	9. Question

QUESTION!!!

~~Since I don't feel particularly strong either way, who do you ship more? Natasha and Bruce Banner or Natasha and Clint? Or should she stay single for the duration of the story?~~

Natasha and Clint won by a landslide! That will happen, eventually.

Let me know, and, since Deadpool is technically in the marvel universe, should he show up in the story too? Who else should show up? I am here to serve, let me know and there is a very little chance of me NOT adding them or whatever you want (within reason) into the story.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky POV

The compact dirt streets of Aurora Run were lined with proper little clapboard sided houses, perfectly colorful flowers bursting from the planter's boxes. The wooden sidewalks weren't impressive, but they were clean, the buildings humble but tidy. The Illinois sun was bright but not pressingly hot, lighting up the aspens and the shocking emerald of the grass that grew happily where ever it pleased, dotted with dandelions.

No packed textile mills crowding up the street corner, no steel plants belching acrid black smoke that choked the cerulean sky. There was no hog slaughterhouse across from the post office, the stench and squeals of the damned ringing through the streets only to be politely ignored. This was only his second time in the small town, but no drunks stumbled from the only tavern, no passed out men laid slumped on the edges of the street, the modest hospital didn't overflow with the dying.

The town sang with crickets and distant conversation from under covered porches, lazy dogs stretched out on the sidewalk catching the sun, and people happily stepped _over_ them, not _on_ them. Well-fed horses stood idly where they were tethered to the hitching posts, troughs of clean water in front of their noses. Fat happy birds chirped in the trees, barefooted but dressed children chased after each other in the path, laughing and not because one stole food from the other.

As Bucky sat on the wagon, surveying the town under the brim of his borrowed hat, he was astounded how easily it was to forget how horrible some places could be. A month on the farm and seeing daily kindness had taken a scouring brush to his memory, scrubbing away the squalor he had lived in and around for nearly twenty-five years.

Steve called back the greetings that were tossed his way, Hela's reins held loosely in his grip. Bucky wasn't concerned, the mare was as cunning as a snake, but she was well trained and also because he had been witness to how quickly Steve could subdue a wayward animal.

Bucky shifted uncomfortably as they passed through the town square, ready to redirect the attention of a _very_ excited Peggy away from the auctioning block. 

But as Hela steadily pulled them through the square, there was only a weeping willow tree and more flowers. No stage weathered from hundreds of bound feet scuffling across the wood, no impassive but sadistically voyeuristic white men with stiff collars and drawling voices calling out numbers like they were playing a game but were, in fact, reducing lives down to the highest bidder.

He had heard about places like this in the south, free states. No longer capitalizing off the work of slaves, and in fact, fighting against the antiquated system. James, of course, had never thought he'd ever see such a thing, especially such a place without even a hangman's post anywhere in the town.

He gazed in a near wonder at the swept porch steps and the lack of vultures on the roofs, and the fact that Peggy could live her whole life without seeing a human being sold off like property.

The thought didn't give him hope, per se, but added another brick to the wall that was keeping back the horrors of his past life.

* * *

Bucky didn't mind being stuck on babysitting duty while Steve talked to the man at the farming store, something about aphids and how to get rid of them. It's not that he found the topic uninteresting, but when Steve had brought it up earlier, Bucky's eyes had glazed over.

He sat on the edge of the sidewalk, unable to help the smirk off his mouth as he watched an incredibly determined and concentrating Peggy try and stack round pebbles on top of each other, with absolutely no success.

"BUCKY!" she wailed after the eighth failed time, pulling the attention of some of the passers-by.

"Yes, darlin'?" He mused, chin in palm, and entirely incapable of saying no to her.

She pointed down at the rocks and made a frustrated noise, the black-eyed Susans embroidered on her bonnet added to her adorableness.

"They're round, kiddo, it won't work," he apologized. Peggy huffed. She then settled on carefully finding different chunks of gravel and setting them into the upturned hands of James, there was no rhyme or specific trait in the rocks she was looking for, but each of them was meticulously and dutifully scanned before she handed them over.

"Thank you," he murmured quietly after every stone carefully slid into his palms, shrinking under the curious gazes of the people around him. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but the low buzz of voices made him a little paranoid, he was still new by the town's standards, the farming community didn't get much in the way of long-term new-blood.

The door to the farm store opened, and James could hear Steve thanking the employee before he walked out, coming to a stop behind where he was sitting on the edge of the wooden walk. Bucky's spine prickled in awareness, but not out of wariness, more so his body mentally charting out where he was behind him.

Peggy's head snapped up to her uncle, doe eyes sparkling under the cap of her bonnet.

"Rocks?" She questioned, holding out two dirty handfuls of cracked gravel.

"Yes, of course," Steve replied without hesitation, setting a cloth bag next to James before easily jumping off the sidewalk. James cast it half a glance, and it read _Chrysanthemum cinerariaefolium,_ and he didn't care to inquire about it further.

Without missing a beat, the little girl packed her uncle's hands full of the matching, nondescript gray and brown stones. He squatted down next to her, smiling down at the girl.

 _Mary mother of Jesus, that smile,_ Bucky internally sighed, not letting himself look at it for too long or how it crinkled the corners of his eyes or how bright his _perfect_ teeth were under his tidy beard.

A group of women approached them, cooing at Steve and Peggy.

"Oh, she is just the sweetest little girl," one commented, earning appreciative clucks from the three others surrounding her. Steve thanked her.

"Margaret already looks so much like her mother, what a gift that will be. Sharon was a true gift to this town," another woman said, hand over her heart and her eyes misty.

"She was the best," Steve agreed. "I hope I can do right by this one, even if she's just half as good, I'll have done my job,"

"Oh, sweetheart," one of the older women said, "You are doing such a fantastic job, don't you worry about that at all. Wanda told us all about how well you're doing at church," her reassurance quickly turned into a stiff-lipped chastise as she continued. "And young man, why haven't you been bringing you and that little girl of yours to Sunday mass? I haven't seen you there in weeks!"

Steve had good enough sense to look berated, even as Peggy took his moment of distraction to start pensively slipping rocks into the front pockets of his shirt without his notice. Bucky _did_ notice, and he covered his laugh with a cough.

"I know I should be going, and when I get into the groove of things, I will, I promise Mrs. Fury," he assured, looking up at the older woman with those damn big blue eyes, and she melted at the look with no resistance. Bucky would have sighed at her nonexistent resolve but knew _for a fact_ that he would give in to almost anything Steve asked if he looked at him the same way, big innocent puppy eyes.

There was a difference though, James knew Steve wasn't all that innocent.

"All right then, dear. How have things been going at the farm anyway? Did you get your crops in?"

Peggy slipped three more rocks in his pockets, comically weighing down the front of his shirt.

"Yeah, finished planting the back a few days ago," he gestured to the bag up on the sidewalk. "Aphids are eating some of the sprouts, so Morris told me that this would work best. I'm not sure how flower dust and powdered rocks are going to help, but I'll try it if it means it'll save my corn crops,"

The women, a special breed of pretending to be interested in whatever men were talking about, nodded like they found it interesting.

"How have you been planting and keeping an eye on the little one?" A different woman questioned, even though Wanda probably told them all about Bucky already.

"Oh," Steve said, throwing a glance over his shoulder to Bucky. "I hired a hand for around the farm; this is James Barnes,"

Bucky swallowed the shy sigh that wanted to escape and walked towards the women, pulling off his hat. Steve found it in an old crate in the barn and howled in laughter. Apparently, it had been his crazy uncle's hat that he had lost in a bet to Steve's mom, Sarah. Sarah got to keep the hat because Josiah had lost the shooting competition. She had proudly hung the cap up on the wall for years, lovingly polishing it until she had died, and Pa had packed it away, unable to look at the memory of something she loved.

He greeted them with a hello and a nod, pretending that he didn't feel raw from their investigatory stares.

"I think Happy mentioned you a few weeks ago; you came off that Mississippi boat, didn't you? All the way from where, New Orleans, wasn't it?"

The women around Mrs. Fury let out little noises of surprise.

"Yes, Ma'am," he nodded, matching her eye contact even though he _really_ didn't want to.

"My my, this little nobody town must be a sharp contrast to what you saw in the south," she marveled.

"All of it for the better," he said truthfully.

"Surely you must be kidding, there's never an ounce of excitement in this place," one of the younger women complained, wrinkling her perfectly freckled nose into a pout.

James bit back his sharply hewn reply of what sort of excitement did she want to see, a public hanging? A bloody bar brawl? Filthy and emaciated children begging for crumbs on the streets only to get kicked by pedestrians?

He turned his anger into a split second of his swoon-worthy grins that he had used to get out of trouble. That smile had also gotten him _into_ a fair amount of trouble as well, but now was not the time.

"Well, I guess I saw 'nough excitement down in New Orleans, then," he pinpointed the grin at her and felt accomplished at her blushing response.

Mrs. Fury watched all of this, not missing a detail.

"Mr. Barnes, did you leave a wife or a sweetheart down in Louisiana?" She asked conversationally, but her attentive eyes told him she was smarter than she let on.

"No, Ma'am, just my poor self,"

"No family down there either?"

Bucky fidgeted with the brim of the hat still in his hands, casting his eyes to the dirt before looking back into her hazel eyes.

"All gone and buried, missus. The dead still seem to follow, though," the last part slipped out all on its own, but her somber reaction quelled his fears of oversharing.

"Yes, son, yes, they do."

For the half-second he glanced to Steve, Bucky saw the insufferably _soft_ look on his face, all split open and vulnerable, heavy gaze agreeing with the statement.

The melancholy moment was disrupted by a breathless teenage boy running up alongside the women, kicking up some dust.

"Pietro Maximoff, you know better than that," Mrs. Fury scolded, brushing the dust off the hem of her smart dress.

"Sorry, missus, Mr. Stark sent me," he apologized quickly, big eyes fixed on Bucky.

"Are you really Jame Barnes?"

Bucky frowned, glancing at Steve, who rolled his eyes to the heavens, cursing under his breath.

"Who's asking?" he gritted out, body on red alert.

"Mr. Stark, he uh, he owns the tavern, _The Iron Man_ , over uh," he gestured to the building off to the left, "over there, and he heard from Happy that you're a real good gambler,"

Mrs. Fury good Christian gaze snapped to James and then to Steve.

"Yeah? What about it?" Bucky bristled.

"He just wants ta' know if it's true, is all," the boy shrugged.

"Well, I guess he'll just have to take my word for it, then," Bucky squared his shoulders.

From the corner of his eye, Bucky saw someone walk out of the tavern and lean on the rail of the sidewalk, looking over at them.

"STEVE!" The voice bellowed good-naturedly across the town square, "bring your friend over, I've never met him! Not to mention, you haven't visited in months!"

Steve stood up, glancing down at his stretched out shirt pockets with a frown as he rose before calling back across the square. "Sorry, Tony, I've got Peggy with," he shrugged a fake apology at the man, pockets overflowing with gravel.

"Oh, nonsense, Steven, go have fun and relax, the women and I can take care of the little doll for a few hours, you deserve it," Mrs. Fury clucked her tongue, scooping a surprised Peggy into her arms as she spoke.

"Martha, I can't possibly ask you to watch her while I entertain Tony," Steve started but was halted quickly.

"I must insist. Now go have fun," and with that, she was walking away. Peggy waved at them over her shoulder, both men automatically waving back.

"When did she have time to do this?" Steve asked, mostly to himself, as he emptied his shirt pockets, scattering the gray rocks on the ground. But Bucky didn't miss the few he snuck into the pockets of his pants, too sentimental to discard all of them. In the same heartbeat that he was mentally calling Steve a sap, he shoved his own handful of gravel in his pocket.

"What am I in for, goin' into the tavern?" Bucky asked seriously as they walked across the square towards the building.

"Tony is a bit much, a little..." he searched for the right word, "eccentric, I think that's what you call crazy people that are wickedly ingenious,"

Bucky nodded.

"I'm sure he won't do anything too crazy, and if he does, just come find me. But I'm sure he won't," Steve seemed to need to reassure himself too.

The tavern was like any other bar James had been in, and it made him tense. The room was open, tables scattered, albeit neatly, the mahogany bar against the back wall artfully stocked with amber bottles. 

"Steven," Tony crowed, pulling the larger man into a quick embrace that involved a lot of back thumping. "I admire you for staying on the straight and narrow for the beautiful little niece of yours, but at the same time, I miss the man that could drink all of us under the table," Tony grinned, perfect white teeth under a fastidiously groomed goatee. He turned his whiskey brown gaze to Bucky, and though the scan was a quick one, it was thorough.

"I had some business down in that decrepit swamp town a few years ago, I understand why you left," there was something hard behind that gaze, and before Bucky could put a name to it, Tony spun on his heel and walked away to the bar, still talking animatedly.

"When Hap told me about the wave of people coming in off that Mississippi charter, I didn't pay him any attention, you know how that man can blabber on and on like it's his job to talk," Tony was speaking a mile a minute, and Steve gave him a tired look.

"But do you know what caught my attention?" Tony whirled around from behind the bar, holding three shot glasses and a bottle of whiskey. "Thank you for asking," he said to no one, "what caught my attention was when he mentioned a curious young man from all the way down in that god awful slave country, and that he used to work in a gambling den down there." He skillfully poured a shot in each glass, sliding them down the bar to the men that carefully picked up the polished crystal.

So far, Bucky didn't like this story.

"Do you know who usually comes through this town?" He leveled his gaze with Bucky. "I'll tell you who usually comes through here, boring farmers and vagrants, and people outrunning their past,"

Bucky glanced away to his shot of whiskey that he had yet to drink. He hadn't had a drink in months, but it didn't make the call stronger.

"Ahh," Tony made a self-satisfied noise. "I guess I hit that nail on the head,"

Steve shifted on his stool uncomfortably.

"You going to get at anything in particular, Stark?" Steve said before Tony could open his well-used mouth.

"Thank you, Steve, I was," Tony leaned against the bar, a twinkle in his eye that made Bucky feel off, and not in a good way.

"I challenge you to a game of poker."

"Why?" James ground out, refusing to outwardly show the tension that had coiled his body tight.

"Why poker, or why you?" Tony confronted, three inches away from Bucky's nose. 

"Why me?"

"Because I have played against every single person in this town, and I have beaten them all. It's your turn."

"Sir, that isn't true," came a tired sounding voice from the corner of the room, posh British accent coloring his words.

"Not the time, Jarvis,"

"You have never beaten Pepper at poker, and I shan't think you will,"

"Thank you, Jarvis,"

"Who's Pepper?" Bucky latched onto the distraction.

"My delightful other-half, who is going to be noticeably absent from this specific game," Tony deadpanned.

"I don't have any money to bet with," James tried to excuse, but Tony waved him off, slamming down his shot like it was water.

"This isn't going to be a game for money, but for talent. Whatta you say, new boy? Are you up for the fight?"

James inhaled slowly and turned to Steve, who offered him no help but a shrug, as if to say _'I've never won an argument against Tony before, so you'll have to give in at some point,'_

"One game, and then I'm done, do you understand?" Even with his stern voice, Tony clapped once loudly, a rapacious grin stretched over his mouth.

"Excellent!"

* * *

There was a drawback to such a small town, and James learned that quickly, because, within ten minutes of him accepting Tony's ridiculous offer, the tavern was packed with people to watch the game. _The Iron Man_ must have been a family-friendly sort of establishment, women and children milled around the shinning floorboards along with the men, but Bucky couldn't pay attention to that right now.

Tony was good, better than James thought he would be. 

His bravado and _slightly_ insane exterior, though Bucky was pretty sure wasn't an actual mask, were a good front for the cold calculation in his suddenly serious brown eyes.

Jarvis dealt the cards with an impassivity that was almost inhuman. There would be no cheating on James's behalf today; he was ill-prepared even to attempt such a thing, especially since he and Tony were under the scrutinizing stare of at least fifty people.

Colorful chips were pushed across the green velvet table, calls were said, cards were sprawled across the table, and neither James nor Tony said a word other than their calls, even when the crowd around them was groaning and shouting things out.

The game lasted thirty minutes from start to finish.

James won.

There must have been some look in his eye because no one thumped in on the shoulder, offering their congratulations; only Tony shook his hand from across the table, a baffled smile on his mouth.

"James, I don't say this very often, so you better savor it, will you teach me how to do that?"

Bucky was in his element for this first time in months, and though his hands knew exactly what they were doing with the cards in his hands, never once did he tremble or waver, his mind was gasping for air.

"We'll have to see, Stark," he said, lacing his voice with just enough humor that it wouldn't be offensive. Tony's grin grew.

Someone was suddenly at Bucky's left, and he almost flinched at the near-contact before he realized it was Steve, who whistled down at the table and stacks of chips.

"I should have warned you about him, Tony. He's a wickedly clever one,"

James let the compliment wash over him.

"Too bad you didn't bet money," Steve commented.

"Yeah, now no one in the whole town will play you because you wiped the floor with his sorry ass," someone crowed behind Steve, and Bucky turned to see a slightly deranged looking man laughing at Tony.

"Now, Rogers, about that goat," the man clapped Steve on the shoulder, hard, and Steve sighed, turning to face the man.

"Yondu, I really don't have to take the goat, you shouldn't have bet her,"

"Now now, you won her fair and square, it's my fault for thinking I could've beaten you at blackjack,"

"Again," Steve interjected, and the man nodded. He was an odd-looking fellow, a little blue around the gills, and what little hair he did have was a stripe down the center of his head.

"Yes, again. She's a right friendly little nanny, I was going to sell her to the butcher anyway if you're sure you don't want her," he hooked his thumb at the door, and instantly, Bucky knew they were going home with the goat. Despite his occupation for almost a decade, and the inevitable violence and probable killing that happened in that time frame, Steve could hardly stomach going hunting, let alone being at fault for not saving a goat's life.

"Alright, I'll take her," Steve sighed. "And Yondu, you really have to stop betting your farm animals on games you can't win, this is the fourth goat you've lost to me in five months,"

"I know, I know," he reassured, but something in his cunning eyes told Bucky that he knew exactly what he was doing. 

Steve and James waded their way through the crowded bar, Steve somehow always coming between Bucky and the people that wanted to grab his shoulder. Bucky felt something burning in his chest after the third time it happened, Steve's wide body agilely slipping between him and the other person, neatly deflecting the contact with suave politeness. It was a good feeling, a little surprising, and a lot appreciated.

They finally escaped the bar and tied to the porch covering to the sidewalk, was a portly little brown and white goat, happily munching on the azaleas. It was undeniable that she was a relative to the goats already wandering the farm. 

"YONDU!" Steve called out in disbelief, eyes wide at the sight of the goat.

The man ducked out of the building, looking at Steve.

"You failed to mention that she was _heavily_ pregnant," a massive palm gestured to the nanny, who looked like she had swallowed two entire wagon wheels.

"Huh," the man scratched the scruffy patch of hair on his chin. "Pregnant, you say?"

Steve threw up his hands with a huff.

"Now Stevey," Steve grimaced at the name, "just think about it, three for the price of one! I'm practically giving her away!"

"You are giving her away," Steve pointed out. 

"Now, when you put it that way, it doesn't sound all that good,"

Steve slipped under the railing of the sidewalk and stroked the enormous stomach of the goat, who wiggled her little tail at the affection.

"Stop betting livestock," he retorted, untying her rope and leading her to the wagon.

* * *

Bucky held on to Peggy as she draped herself over the backboard on the wagon, her grubby palms petting the goat in the cart. They were on their way out of town, the sun was making its journey west, and it would take a full hour to get back to the farm.

"Hey Doc Banner," Steve called out to the man standing in front of a white building that read _HOSPITAL_. The man looked up and smiled; Steve pulled Hela to a stop.

"Hello, Steve, how are you?"

The doctor was an unimposing man, mop of curly brown hair, and a lopsided smile. 

"We've been doing pretty good," Steve replied. 

"That's great to hear," the doctor glanced over contents of the wagon and sighed when he saw the goat being doted on by a little girl.

"Did Yondu try his hand at blackjack again?" The doctor raised an eyebrow.

"I swear he does it on purpose," Steve shook his head with a laugh.

"He likes to think of it as a way of taking care of people, I guess,"

He caught Bucky's eye for the first time and nodded to him, a smug smile on his lips.

"I heard that you beat Tony at poker today, congratulations,"

"Thank you,"

"That man needs to be kept in check every once in a while, and I'm happy you got to do it,"

"Doctor Banner, this is James Barnes,"

"Bucky," Peggy corrected without missing a beat.

"Uh, Bucky," Steve tossed a smile to the girl, "he's helping me care for the farm,"

"Good to meet you," the doctor smiled, " _Bucky._ If you need me for anything, you can find me here always. I live in the upstairs," he pointed to the small window above the hospital, and James nodded.

"I'll keep that in mind, doc,"

"Alright, I'll let you boys get going before it gets too dark," Banner gave them their goodbyes, and Steve clicked Hela onward on the road.

* * *

Steve sighed, leaning over the side of the goat pen in the barn. Four munching goats milled around the enclosure, accepting their sister back easily.

"You should become a full-time goatherd, quit the farmin' thing altogether," Bucky teased from the open barn door, feeling a little proud when Steve laughed. Peggy was sound asleep in the house; the sun had set an hour ago, everything was ready to sleep, except, of course, to the idiots standing in the barn.

"I'll think about it,"

"What are my chances of people forgetting about what happened today at the tavern?"

"What, and forget the most exciting that's happened since we found out that the preacher was having an affair with his wife's sister? Are you kidding?"

Bucky thumped his head against the barn door with a groan.

Steve grew sober, throwing a glance at James.

"You really did that every day in New Orleans?"

"No, most of the time, I cheated," he answered honestly.

"Oh."

"I think Stark is going to be disappointed when I never play another game with him again,"

"He can stand to be disappointed, you don't owe him anything," Steve offered.

"It's nice," Bucky said, so quietly he wasn't sure if Steve could hear him, "to not owe anyone anything. Everyone that thought so is eight hundred miles away."

In the waning light of the kerosene lamp on the post by Steve's head, the man looked almost ethereal, the sharp cut of his jawline and the thoughtful look in his impossibly blue eyes. 

It was a dangerous thing, standing here in the barn with him, nothing calling either of their attentions away, inhibitions weak after a taxing day. The sweet smell of the hay or the coaxing breeze did little to help the sudden heaviness in the air, the moment almost as pregnant as the goat in front of them.

It was nice not to have anyone thinking that James owed them, but it was terrifying to think that maybe he was starting to _desire_ something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yondu was requested, I hope I delivered well enough.  
> This chapter felt repetitive after a while, oh well.  
> The next chapter is going to be angst, sorry not sorry, but also, split perspective.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve POV and then Bucky POV  
> I kinda like the split POV, might happen more often to get the full range of emotion and experience.

**Author's note** Play this[song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RoStZSd9CWk) if you want, it goes well with the very first part of the chapter. For reference 'men' and 'you' is Sharon's sickness 'she chose you and now she's gone' this is Sharon dying and leaving Steve with Peggy (the son). You get the idea.**

The land had been broken with a horse and plow six years ago. It had been a combined effort of Joseph and Sharon, back-breaking work and endless days carving up the Illinois dirt, heaving eighty-pound rocks on the cart to haul away, plastered in dust and sweat from the baking sun.

Steve stood in the very same field with his body covered in the pesticide dust he had bought from Morris, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. 

His Ma and Pa had kept their farm running for decades, and they had more acreage than Steve had to tend to now. They had raised two little kids and kept more cows; Ma had even started her own business of plant husbandry, creating beautiful flowers and... interesting squash.

They had seemed so infallible; nothing could shake them or uproot the farm; they knew exactly what they were doing all the time.

And as Steve surveyed the one hundred acres around him at the complete mercy of everything he couldn't control, he wondered if his parents ever felt like this. Out of power, no way to regain it.

In his mind, he watched his sister carefully step between the crooked lines of the planted corn, she patted down her dress and watched Steve's face relax as the sun set, streaks of brilliant orange and yellow painting the sky.

He wanted to reach out for her, to hold her smooth hands in his palm, just for a _second._ It was impossible still, to believe that something as vital as Sharon could die. Little sisters aren't supposed to die. He watched from the corner of his eye while her honeyed hair whip across her face as she faced the sun that was slipping over the horizon, illuminating the green of her eyes and the flush of her cheeks.

If he touched her, she would vanish like the daydream she was, the ripples in her white cotton dress only as real as his brain thought they were.

It didn't make his heart ache any less.

* * *

Junebug and her overgrown calf were put in their stall, Hela and Thor munching contentedly on their hay; goats shuffled in their pen, chickens tucked away on their roosts in their coop. Everything was in order; Steve shut the door to the barn. It was a temperant night, the lukewarm breeze lifting up the leaves of the poplar, the chirping of crickets floating in from the fields, the last of the spring peeper frogs croaking up a storm from the north. The wide-open, unblinking eye of the moon gave him plenty of light to walk back to the house, illuminating everything in a silvered blue. The night smelled like apple blossoms and hollow dreams.

Bucky sat in the rocking chair on the porch with Peggy sprawled out across his torso, her mop of wild curls hiding her face that was tucked into his bare throat. She had been crying to be held all day, she already spent most of her day with her arms wrapped around James' neck, and she seemed to have gotten her wish again.

Steve wanted to smile at the sight of them, Peggy curled into his hold, tiny fist holding onto the collar of his shirt, Bucky with his head leaned back against the chair, both of them sound asleep. Steve _wanted_ to smile, but the picture before him made his mouth a little dry and his face a little warm.

Peter made no noise of complaint as Steve stepped over him to get closer to the rocking chair. He was hovering, he knew that, but it didn't make him move away.

On that same lukewarm breeze that had lifted the poplar leaves, some of James' hair had fallen across his face, and that just won't do. Steve hadn't really noticed Bucky's hair; he hadn't _let_ himself see, because then he'd have to acknowledge how it touched his long throat or the rumbling laugh that lived in his chest.

But now, he was noticing and he couldn't stop, couldn't pull back his hand until it was carefully, the gentlest his hands had ever been, brushing the hair off his cheek.

God, he wanted for his touch to linger, he _wanted_ to curl it around his finger, he desperately wanted James to open his eyes but was terrified to get caught.

 _Such a shame you're a coward, Stevey love, something really beautiful could happen if you weren't,_ Sharon sighed over his shoulder, her make-believe words spread shivers across his skin, and he wasn't sure it was because of the cold.

* * *

James knew the second Steve stepped foot on the porch. The boards weren't subtle; neither was the way the night air shifted around his _definitely_ not subtle body.

Bucky didn't startle like the part of his mind still directed him to do, but it was no longer the dominant part of him. No longer did he flinch when Peggy jumped on him, the seldom but booming bark of Peter no longer made him feel like ice water was being poured down his back, Steve standing too close didn't send him into a spiral of flight or fight.

So, Bucky didn't move. The sharp spikes of danger didn't dig into his sides; he let himself float in the bit of sleep he had snatched for a few minutes. Belatedly, he registered little things, the heat of Peggy snuggled into his side, her breath on his neck, the _staggering_ weight of Peter on his outstretched feet.

Steve was hovering over them, and Buck wondered if he knew he was doing it.

And then, he was brushing the hair off of James' face. 

Now, Bucky was startled.

He didn't get affection from people that knew better than to give it to a stray dog. 

But Steve's fingers brushed his cheek, all the same, leaving nothing behind but a trail of fire. 

He fought for control over his breathing, forced the hitch out of his chest, and struggled to keep his eyes shut. 

_Jesus Christ,_ why couldn't he be a normal stray and just bask in the attention, taking it where he could get it instead of loving the idea of it happening again?

Polly cheered so loudly in his head he wondered how she wasn't actually standing next to him.

 _Oh, Jaimie, he's so sweet,_ she squealed, clapping in delight. _You're so lucky!_

* * *

The crying woke Bucky up, seeing as the bedroom walls were butted up against each other. Peggy was old enough that she didn't wake up every night, but she was still so little that it couldn't be held against her when she did. Usually, she had Steve would whisper back and forth, mostly just Steve telling her to go back to sleep and Peggy opting to start an unintelligible conversation about a bug she had seen earlier that day. But this was different, it was a sniffling sad cry, and Bucky drifted in and out of sleep as he vaguely paid attention to what was happening.

The next time he woke up, he could see light peeking up from in between the floorboards from the first level, Peggy still sniffling.

Without a second thought, he jumped into his pants, fingers haphazardously and incorrectly buttoning his shirt as he crept down the stairs.

Steve paced the house while rhythmically stroking the back of a mostly naked Peggy on his shoulder, who was doing her best not to cry but wasn't succeeding too well.

The fire was out in the hearth, a single kerosene lamp burning on the table. The air felt wrong, too quiet and expectant.

He hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, watching them walk around the house. The second Peggy saw him, her bottom lip jutted out and started quivering, tiny hand reaching out for him.

If you told James Barnes eight months ago that in his near future that he'd be standing in a farmhouse in rural Illinois and holding the hand of a little girl while she wouldn't let go of her ex bounty hunter of an uncle that he had voluntarily moved in with, he would have told you that day-drinking wasn't a hobby and would suggest chess.

Bucky had scraped his fair share of people off the floor after a brawl or a hangover, including himself, but he never had to brush back the sweaty hair of a toddler before. She was boiling with a fever, her sweat soaking through Steve's shirt, the rags soaked in vinegar resting on her back.

Bucky got the feeling that not every hired hand did this, the more he thought about it. He remembered the odd looks he had received in town when he had watched over the little girl; everyone a bit confused about why the farm help was minding the child. 

He didn't think too hard about it as they took turns carrying Peggy around the house, patting her boiling body down with cold water and vinegar. The longer the hours stretched on, kerosene lamp flickering on the table, the pressing feeling of the dark outside, the more anxious the men became. Even Loki was paying attention, ice blue eyes following the movements of whoever was carrying Peggy.

The fever wasn't even close to breaking, the dreams they induced left her twitching and murmuring, occasionally spasming hard enough to clock either of them in the jaw. It was a fight to get her to drink water; they hardly got enough down her throat to make up for the amount she was sweating. James had been the one to go out to the well and fill up the pail, and he absolutely did not enjoy the owl that sat in the hickory tree next to the well and hooted at him, almost making him drop the water pail.

On the umpteenth time of them switching her, Bucky paused before lifting her off of Steve's shoulder.

Scattered across her scalding hot body, were raised red patches. 

"Steve," Bucky murmured, tracing a finger over the bumps stretched across her back. The sight made his stomach roil and knot in his body, and when he glanced up to look at Steve, he saw the fear tenfold scripted across his face.

"It's just hives, but I don't think this fever is goin' to slow down," Bucky kept his hand on her sweaty back as he spoke, the grip that Steve had on her tightened ever so slightly.

"I have to go get Doc Banner, he'll, uh," Steve ran his free hand over his face, winching when Peggy whined from the movement. "He'll know what to do. I'm going to go saddle Hela, here," he started shifting the glassy-eyed toddler into James' arms. "Take her,"

Bucky watched in surprise as he left the house, not putting on his shoes, and Buck was pretty sure he jumped down the steps instead of taking them. Peter wandered in from the open door, looking around in confusion, but immediately found one of Peggy's dangling hands and pressed his nose into it.

Steve came back into the house a few minutes later, most likely to grab his shoes, when Bucky stopped him.

"I'll go, you need to stay here with her," he said quietly, standing up from the kitchen chair, Loki rising with him as he carefully smelled Peggy.

Steve looked _torn,_ it was horrible to look at, the near agony on his face as he thought.

"I know where he is, we rode past the hospital last week, 'member?" he reassured.

"You don't know how to ride a horse," Steve countered weakly, but he made no move to grab his shoes.

"I'll jus' keep a leg on either side and the horse underneath me, sound good 'nough for you?"

"I-" Steve glanced back outside at the mare that he hadn't even bothered to tie to the porch, reins dragging on the ground as she listened to them in the house, ears quirked.

"Steve, you need to stay here with her," the fever was bad, both of them knew, and though James didn't think that anything truly horrific was going to happen to Peggy in the time it would take to get to the doctor, he knew it shouldn't be him with the girl if it did happen. Neither would be able to handle it.

Steve's hands were steady as he pulled the sleeping girl off of Bucky's shoulders, but the width of his terrified eyes told James a different story.

Barefeet were shoved into boots hastily tied, he slung on Steve's coat on accident, but he was already off the porch by the time he realized the shoulders were too wide to be his.

Hela pinned her ears back as he slung himself up in her saddle, but she listened when he dug his heels into her sides. She was smaller than her brother, but her hooves still pounded the earth, gobbling it up in greedy strides as they made their way to the town. For his first time on a horse, James figured he was doing pretty good, but he knew his ass would be in a world of hurt in the morning.

The night roared past him on the wind, and even though it had been a warm day and a temperant night, racing a horse down open fields at three in the morning brought out a bit of a nip in the air. Soon the roughly hewn dirt path turned into the town roads, and Bucky had barely enough decency to slow Hela down just enough that her hooves wouldn't wake the dead.

Finally, _finally,_ the silent streets of the town led him to the hospital, pale clapboard sides of the building staring down at him in judgment.

He inelegantly dismounted from Hela and knocked loudly on the door. The mare was breathing heavy but hadn't worked up a froth or hardly a sweat, but she was definitely awake now.

The half-formed thought of politeness fled his mind at the idea of Steve and Peggy back at the house, waiting for him to bring the doctor, and he knocked again. A light lit the window up above, and Bucky stepped back from the door. 

Doctor Banner pulled open the door of the hospital, curly hair wild as he squinted up at James, lantern in hand.

"James?" he questioned, voice croaky.

"Peggy has a real bad fever, her back is all broke out in hives, at least I think it's hives, but it might be the start of the pox rash," Bucky blurted quickly, chest heaving from the ride over.

"Betty, go get my bag," Dr. Banner said over his shoulder, and a brunette woman that James hadn't even seen, nodded and raced up the stairs.

Bucky nervously watched as the doctor handed him the lantern and stuffed his shirt into his pants and shoved his feet into his booths.

The old gelding in the lean-to off the hospital didn't seem all too surprised when Bruce woke him quickly, slinging a saddle over his back.

Betty came back out of the hospital, a big black briefcase dwarfing her body. She handed it up to the doctor after he straddled the gelding, quickly discussing the medicines she had put into the case.

Bucky scrambled back up on Hela after handing the lantern to the doctor's wife, leading the way back to the farm with a steady gallop.

* * *

The rest of the night for Bucky was spent loitering in the kitchen out of the way or sitting on the porch, consoling a distraught Peter. He was just the farmhand, he knew that, but it didn't make him worry any less. He waited from a distance, shamelessly eavesdropping on the conversations inside. The doctor's gelding was a polite gentleman, taking the offered carrot from Bucky's fingers with a delicacy he had yet to see from any other animal on the farm. Already having busied himself with cooling down and stripping the tack off Hela and giving her a very grateful brush down, he had scrubbed the stink of horse and vinegar off of him in the barn. After anxiously coaxing the sun to breach the horizon line, Buck busied himself with milking Junebug and the goats, not complaining once when the pregnant nanny tried to eat his pants while he milked her sister.

Milk stashed away and morning chores are done, Bucky drifted to sleep on the porch, Peter blanketing his lap. The opening door startled them both, Peter unceremoniously sliding down as James bolted to his feet, his scrubbed hair had dried in the tie he had roped it into, he knew he was a sight, so he didn't blame the doctor as he stared at James for a few seconds before offering him a tame smile.

"You did well last night, James, and because of it, that little girl is going to feel better a lot sooner,"

Bucky sagged in relief, his head connecting sharply with the chair he slumped back into.

"She'll be alright, then?"

"Yes, I gave her some medication that will reduce her fever and subsequent heat rash. Once her fever breaks, it'll all be smooth sailing."

"Thanks, Doc. I mean it," Bucky said, the weight of the night draped over his shoulders, warring with him as he stood up to shake Banner's hand. 

Something green flashed in Bruce's eyes as he let go of the grip. "I couldn't save Sharon. I can fix a fever; I can't get rid of a brain tumor," he shrugged a little, the slouch of his exhausted shoulders betraying more than Bucky thought he'd usually give. "I've been friends with Steve since we were seven, I've got to save his little girl."

The topic of Sharon had never been broached by Bucky; he only knew that she got sick a few months ago and died, leaving Peggy and the farm to Steve.

The leather of the saddle groaned as Bruce mounted his gelding, coaxing him down the drive towards town.

With a dog glued to his side, Bucky wandered the farm, watering the garden, but not knowing the difference between the weeds and seedlings to try and do anything about it; the stalls were mucked out, aisles swept clean. And only when Bucky couldn't think of another thing to do, did he sit back up on the porch.

* * *

The fever broke an hour before sunset. Peggy sat in her cocoon of blankets, blinking sleepily at Bucky as Steve spoon-fed her soup. 

"Hi," she croaked.

"Hey, darlin," he whispered back as he stood behind one of the chairs around the fireplace, worrying his lip between his teeth as he watched her. Her eyes weren't glazed over anymore, and her hair, though wild, was no longer plastered to her face with sweat. Slowly, he let the fear that had been sharpening its claws on his spine leave his body.

She fell back into a fit-less sleep almost as soon as Steve stopped feeding her, curling around a _shockingly_ compliant Loki, her content baby face smushed between his notched ears.

As Bucky watched the bristly tomcat get squeezed into a purring submission, he didn't notice Steve getting closer until suddenly, he was getting hugged.

 _Oh,_ was the only thought in his mind as Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky, holding him tight enough to restrict air, face pressed into his neck.

Surprised wasn't an adequate enough word, perhaps stunned? Or maybe floored? Startled?

Whichever word belonged there, it didn't really matter that much because Steve was crushing him to his chest, and Bucky could guess that it was to keep himself from shattering into pieces on the floor. Tentatively, he hugged him back.

"Thank you," he said, the words rumbling through both of them, his breath on Bucky's neck was distracting.

"You don't hafta thank me-" James tried, wondering if he sounded as choked as he felt.

"Yes, I do, so shut up and let me hug you," Steve interrupted, hands splayed across Bucky's back, each fingertip distinguishable from the other where they pushed into his skin.

"Alright," Bucky whispered.

"Thank you, James." He said, voice as solid as his grip.

 _So this is what heart palpitations feel like,_ Bucky's mind hiccuped.

"You're welcome," he replied, not nearly as confidently as he wanted to sound.

In the back of his mind, James wondered how he will ever be able to leave the farm now that he had broken the first rule of being a stray, he had become emotionally attached to the first people to show him humanity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that Doctor Banner had a canonical wife? Me neither.  
> The next chapter is light-hearted and FUN because WE DESERVE IT. This chapter was emotionally taxing.  
> I am basing all of Peggy off of my extensive experience with children. She hasn't done anything in the story that I haven't lived through with a child I have babysat. Yes, that includes the rocks and the flowers and the holding fevered babies.  
> Yes, I googled it and soaking rags in vinegar, and putting them on your body is a fever reducer.  
> Do not be concerned that Steve regularly sees and occasionally converses with his dead sister. He's not crazy. He's mourning.  
> I found a website that you can paste the text into and it reads it back for you, and I don't know if I like the sound of one of my stories being read back to me.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pop quiz: Ororo is a real marvel character, what is her superhero name?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took so long to write, and I don't even like how it turned out, fair warning that I might take it down for editing later and fix it up. Sorry. It also got a little steamier than I originally intended, it was supposed to be cute and a little juvenile, but that didn't happen. Don't get too excited though, it's steamy by 1850's standards.

That night, Bucky dreamt of Papa Legba.

Voodoo had always scared him; the Loas always seemed so much more tangible than any other god he knew of. The people of New Orleans would despise anything that wasn't Christianity but turned right around and hung gris-gris from their windowsills, always turning to the slaves for help.

Bucky knew better than to tangle himself in gods of any kind; he had yet to know of one that wouldn't be scorned by his existence.

But it didn't make him feel any degree of relief to see the god of the crossroads at the end of his bed.

"I like the dog you have downstairs," he said quietly, voice rumbling and low as he blew out a mouthful of smoke, watching it curl into the night air. 

"What?"

"I had to sneak up the stairs, he almost caught me too, couldn't have him barkin' and wakin' you up," his voice alternated accents as he spoke, switching from a southern drawl to something crisp and European, then lilting and African.

"Why?"

"Needed to talk," he raised a sloped shoulder.

"About what?" Bucky knew it was a dream, reality seemed fuzzier around the edges; the night smelled like New Orleans and it gagged him.

Papa Legba's face was invisible under the stretch of his hat, body swaying to one side over the cane in his hand.

"You tell me, you called me here,"

"No, I didn't," Bucky replied stupidly.

Papa Legba laughed. "You want to speak with a god, no? That's why I'm here. So who is it? Which deity do you think needs to talk to you?"

"N-no one, I don't know the voodoo gods,"

"Lie," Papa Legba let out another gust of smoke. It didn't even smell like cigar smoke; it reeked of burnt hair and blood. "You know me, don't you?"

"Yes," he conceded.

"So who do you want a conference with? Azaka Medeh? To make the harvest big and bountiful? Dan Petro? Me, maybe? No one has ever wanted to talk to just me before," the old man mused, and his eyes glinted from under the straw hat as he took in the man before him. Bucky couldn't feel malevolence, but whatever Papa Legba was, he wasn't precisely benevolent either. The dark of the night danced around him, bored but curious.

"You want to speak with Baron Samedi, don't you?"

"Who's that?"

"He is the Loa of death and sexuality," Papa Legba responded with no hesitation.

"What would I want wit' him?" Bucky blanched.

"Feeling particularly dead or lascivious?" He deadpanned.

"No!?"

"Ah. Well," he tapped his cane on the floor, and it made a cracking, hollow sound that sent fire up Bucky's arm. "I'll be back when you need to speak with him. I'm sure he'd love to talk with you, there are many dead that know your name, and you both have the same taste in men,"

And with that, Papa Legba was gone, leaving behind the acrid smell of New Orleans.

* * *

James sat straight up in bed, his left arm  _ screaming _ . The nerves he thought to be dead were alive and angry, stinging him a thousand times with a hornet's pinch, stabbing and slicing at his flesh with a fervor that left him breathless and slick with sweat.

His shaking legs hardly held him as he bolted out of bed, scrambling to the chest at the end of the bed. He hadn't brought much when he fled the city, he didn't have practically anything to take, everything fit into a bag, and the contents spilled across the floor.

The gris-gris bag was small and brown as it flopped unceremoniously on the floor only to be quickly snatched up by Bucky. 

Ororo had pressed it into his palm a week before he left, her stormy eyes shining as she told him that no matter where he went, there would always be people that cared about him, the Loa would keep an eye on him for her.

Zola sold her that night in an attempt at getting money to appease the loan sharks. It hadn't worked.

James hadn't opened the bag and didn't want to; he had trusted her words and judgment and missed her terribly.

He left all of his earthly possessions on the worm floorboards and climbed back into bed with the gris-gris curled in the hand of his bad arm, trying not to think too hard about what Papa Legba said.

* * *

"OH, YOU ARE JUST A HORRIBLE CAT!" Bucky scolded, jumping up onto the side table, reaching for Loki. The tomcat was neatly threading himself between the mason jars lining the top shelves, knocking them precariously close to the edge. James teetered on the small table he was standing on, pushing the jars farther onto the ledge, scrambling to get ahead of the feline bastard.

Loki, entirely unconcerned, flicked his tail at the man, taking a moment to reach up and knock down a cobweb, licking it off his paw.

"You are the worst creature I have ever met," growling, Bucky grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and hauled him off the shelf and jumped down from the table.

Curtly, he dumped the beast onto the porch. Sharp blue eyes stared James down as he haughtily shook out his fur, deeply offended.

"Bad cat!" he chastised with an outstretched finger once more for good measure and wondered what his life had become.

Peggy's fever had broken three days earlier, and the girl was almost back to full energy. Still, Bucky would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy that she always wanted to be held and carried, even though it inconvenienced him constantly.

She sat pensively in her high chair now, sighing in delight over her jam slathered toast.

Peggy  _ loved _ jam, every type but especially raspberry, and she could hardly eat it with her eyes open. She'd do practically anything for a spoonful, and she had done nothing but hum happily and lick it off the bread from the moment it was handed to her. The small child had already eaten two pints since her fever broke, and it was happily supplied by her doting uncle, who was still shaken up about her temporary ailment.

James settled down next to her, lost in thought about the visitor of his dream the night before. He fidgeted with the gris-gris that hung around his neck on a string, a necklace he had fashioned that morning. He wasn't worried about Papa Legba coming back or meeting Baron Samedi, but he figured that since Ororo had taken the time to make him the talisman, he might as well keep it on his person.

Belatedly, he registered his name being spoken, and before he could react, biscuit  _ coated _ with jam splattered onto his chest and onto his face.

"Jam?" Peggy asked, staring at the red dripping down his shirt, offering her other piece to him.

"No, darlin' I think I've had enough," he sighed, scooping the preserves off his now  _ dreadfully  _ stained clothes.

* * *

It hadn't taken him very long to outgrow the threadbare clothes he had brought with, living solely in Joseph's clothes that Wanda said he could use. He couldn't bear to take the clothes he worked in, even though they were expensive and well made. Quality food and hard farm work had flipped the gaunt hollow of his cheeks and visible ribs into a healthy human with a new layer of muscle and callus.

In another life, maybe he'd allow himself to be vain and appreciate how he no longer looked like a scarecrow, but he wasn't feeling all too attractive as he kneeled in the grass outside the farmhouse, scrubbing his borrowed shirt on the washboard, suds up to his elbows.

Peggy quietly ate her jam covered biscuit in the grass next to a pouting Peter, her love of jam winning over his insistent begging and puppy eyes.

From what he could remember, Ma had been a laundress before she died, hands always chapped and rubbed raw from the chemicals used in the vats. He didn't remember a lot about her other than her green eyes and the small pile of blankets they slept on every night. He hardly remembered her name; he couldn't even be sure that it  _ was  _ Jenny. Could've been Janey or Jemma or Jill.

James angrily dashed away the thought, dunking the finally clean shirt into the rinse water. He ought to know his own mother's name, and it pissed him off that he might not.

In his rush to get the stain out before it set, he hadn't gone upstairs to get a new shirt, and as the wind curled around his burned arm, he became  _ acutely  _ aware of how bare he felt.

The cut on his arm still wasn't healed, but it no longer bled spontaneously; it was now just an angry welted line jaggedly drawn on his forearm, glaring up at him unforgivingly.

James didn't hate it as much as he had; he knew he didn't need to be forgiven for running away. It had taken many sleepless nights staring up at the boards of the ceiling to come to that conclusion.

The water streamed through his fingers as he wrung out the shirt, he rose to his feet. 

"Jam?" Peggy asked conversationally, and James sighed, ready to politely decline her offer. He had just about enough jam for one day.

"No, thank you, sweetheart," mused a voice from behind him.

Bucky felt his back stiffen, but he refused to shy away and hide his arm.

He was not ashamed, even though it colored his cheeks.

"Is that what happened here? Jam?" Steve joked, and Bucky forced the tension from his shoulders, channeling all of his energy into hanging the now clean garment on the clothesline.

"Naturally,"

Taking longer with the pins than what was necessary, he finally stole a glance over his arm at Steve.

Natasha purred in his mind as Steve quickly looked away from the breadth of Bucky's back and up to his eyes, cheeks going a little rosy.

"At some point, I'm going to need Wanda to make us enough to last next winter, especially at the rate she's eatin' them jars,"

There was no reason for James to continue facing the clothesline that ran between the woodshed and the house, so he swallowed something that was thrumming in his chest and turned around.

"Y'all don't have orange trees this far north, do you?" He forced out as casually as he could manage, and he had to physically restrain himself from hiding his arm against his side or behind his back.

"No, I don't think we do."

Bucky willed him not to look at his arm.

Steve did not comply.

* * *

_ This is genuinely unfair; Steve _ thought to himself, almost angrily. He had been good for weeks now. He had focused all of his energy on the farm, and on Peggy, he had hardly let a distraction catch his attention, let alone knock him so thoroughly on his ass.

Somewhere, in the back of his hyper-focused mind, he understood the humor in it. He had walked in the house all those weeks ago wearing nothing but suspenders and trousers, and now Bucky stood in front of him with low slung work pants and a cord around his throat, messy hair piled on top of his head.

For god's sake, he had only come over here because he was making sure that Bucky didn't have to clean up something he didn't need to. Peggy was potty-trained, but she was still so little.

Instead, he got a full view of cruel-looking muscles stretched under pale skin. 

Steve  _ hates _ small talk; he had no idea why he initiated it. Maybe it was an excuse to keep looking in James' general direction. Most likely, it was too keep his jaw from dropping open involuntarily. He hadn't fallen victim to that often, but he wasn't immune, and right now was an ample example.

The memory of taking distinct steps toward Bucky was unclear; he just sort of drifted until he was two feet away, eyes zeroed in on his arm.

When he had hurt it way back in the beginning and let Steve look at it and help him, Steve hadn't lingered on the appendage longer than he needed to, but it had haunted him. Of course, he wanted to know the story behind the horrible scars that stretched from his shoulder to his wrist, but he kept his questions to himself for well over a month.

"How's your arm?" He asked carefully, treading on waters he hadn't navigated yet.

"I'll live," Bucky shrugged half-heartedly.

"And the cut?"

"Finally stopped bleeding about a week ago,"

they both looked down at his arm as he rotated it, showing the vicious cut slashed into his forearm. It was puckered and scabbed and angrily purple and red, but it didn't look in danger of cracking open anymore. 

Slowly, slowly, so lightly and gently, it almost wasn't real; Steve skimmed his fingers under Bucky's elbow, lifting his arm closer for inspection.

He could see the cut just fine; all he wanted was an excuse to touch him. It was selfish, but James didn't freeze like he used to at unwanted contact; he stood still put relaxed, river blue eyes wide but trusting.

The skin that had healed from the burns was smooth and warped, the raised pink lines latticed up and around, not a square inch of skin left untouched by the fire that ate at him.

"Does it hurt?" He whispered, fingers tracing over a particularly large red spot, gathering enough bravery to glance at Bucky's face. 

"Not anymore," he whispered back, sounding strangely strangled.

"And your shoulder?"

"Good as new,"

"Good," Steve took a step back, fingers tingling.

There were almost no bruise-like shadows under his eyes anymore, and Steve felt a little triumphant about it. Safety can't erase stress and paranoia, but it's a good start, and he felt personally responsible for it. And to see the physical signs of it disappearing within the span of a few weeks,  _ oh _ it made him proud.

Bucky smelled like laundry soap and raspberry jam and the sweet June heat hanging in the air. All of the above were good reasons to stay so close to him, close enough that he hardly had to stretch to curl a finger around the cord wrapped around his neck.

"What's this?" he didn't pull on the leather band securing the little back in place, simply turned it over in his fingers, knuckles brushing against the warm skin of his collarbone.

"A gift from a friend,"

"Oh?"

"A voodoo talisman from all the way down in witch territory," Buck couldn't help but let a small shark grin kiss the corner of his mouth, all teeth and charm. "It's to keep tha' evil spirits away; I'm just too irresistible, I guess,"

_ Jesus fucking Christ, _ Steve snarled in his mind, every thought in his head was consumed by the explicit ways he wanted to test that theory, for three full seconds before he felt the air leave his body in a slow breath.

James leaned back just enough that the cable was taught around his neck, Steve's fingers still latched onto it. Since they were practically the same height, it was no challenge to level each other's matching gaze.

Everything in Steve was hungry in a way that his body hadn't felt in a while, and he wanted to see if the smear of raspberry jam on Bucky's neck would satiate him.

If Peggy hadn't been sitting in the grass not six feet away, Steve could only wonder what would have happened, and he knew that he would think about it  _ a lot _ in the next few days.

Without anything clever to say, Steve dropped the string, taking great care to make sure he brushed his hand against the hollow of James' throat as he let go, earning a wonderous noise as he took in a quiet gulp of air from the contact.

Steve felt alive, blissfully,  _ shockingly _ alive, and it coursed through his veins like whiskey or a bar brawl. Bucky had a haze across his cheeks that Steve was sure mirrored his own.

"I have to go uh," Steve took a step back, knowing that if he didn't walk away now, that he would do something regrettable. "I gotta go fix a loose shingle on the barn roof," he threw a hooked thumb over his shoulder, not even gesturing at the barn.

James nodded, not trusting his voice or anything that would come of out of his mouth.

"Bye Stevey," Peggy called out from around her mouthful of biscuits and jam, reminding Steve that the whole exchange he had with James had been less than three minutes.

"Bye Peggy, see you later,"

Try as he might, he couldn't keep the stupid grin off his face as he walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of today, I have officially finished all of my requirements to graduate high school. Too bad that I haven't stepped a metaphorical foot (cripple joke, I'm in a wheelchair) since the middle of March.  
> Can we talk for a sec about the shit going down in Minneapolis? I have never had anything like this fuck me up so badly, I have cried like five times today because of it. It's all been quietly brewing in my mind for a while now, with Ahmaud and the Stolen Sisters, George Floyd was just the breaking point and I can't with America right now. I haven't cried this much for strangers since Parkland. It took me almost three hours to finish the last three hundred words of this chapter because I'd get distracted every five minutes thinking about all of this.  
> New chapter coming eventually. You should know by now I don't have a posting schedule.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here you go, a dollop of JEALOUS Bucky. Didn't think he'd exist? WRONG.  
> Sorry this took almost a whole damn month, hope it's worth it.

The late June heat simmered in the air, carried in on the lazy breeze from the river, teasing the saccharine scent of wild plum blossoms and the lilac bushes. 

It was a different sort of heat than Bucky was used to; his skin wasn't slick with the humidity, not an ounce of Spanish moss dripping from the balconies, no cottonmouth sleeping soundly on the porch.

Here, the sky was only blocked by towering hickories and resolute pines instead of buildings, and the only fetid odor was that of the damn chickens.

Chickens were  _ dusty _ ; something Buck had never even thought was an option. The closest contact he had with animals down in Louisiana was the sort he ate, and it was borderline appalling the amount of waste something so small could produce. 

The beady-eyed bastard of a rooster watched from outside the enclosure, pinning him under his moronic stare. 

James grumbled under his breath at the avian and stabbed the shovel back into the floor, scooping up the floor's litter. 

He thought back to the stuffy afternoons he spent in the Hydra house, using the lull of customers to sit back for a few moments, sipping refreshing sweet tea and talking with the girls, borrowing one of their lace hand fans to stave off the New Orleans weather.

Hydra had tall, white, ornately decorated ceilings with small windows at the top to suck out all the hot air, but James wasn't convinced that it ever worked. 

He didn't miss it. Not for one second. He didn't miss the high ceilings or the lace fans, the polished hardwood floors, or the stretching bar that took up a large portion of the back wall, not for a single moment.

He had traded in his starched collars and velvet coat for a pair of dungarees and a shit covered shovel, and he wouldn't trade it for the world.

As he sprinkled down the last of the straw on the ground, James wiped the damp hair out of his eyes with the back of his wrist, knowing that he had probably rubbed a smear of dirt across his forehead, but he did not care enough to do anything about it. There was a pinch in his back from stooping in the sloped ceiling shed, and he felt in the mood to stick his head in the water trough in the barn and just  _ hold it _ there for a few minutes.

The sharp warning barks from Peter echoed through the yard, pulling Bucky's attention away from the blisters forming on his palms.

A buckskin horse loped up the driveway, kicking up a trail of dust behind it. It was smaller and a little more feral looking than the workhorses that nickered at it goodnaturedly from behind the fence, but more importantly, was the rider ontop the horse.

Quickly, James exited the coop but kept the shovel in his hand as the rider approached, swathed in dust and leather, wide-brimmed hat pulled low on his brow.

Steve rounded the corner of the barn upon the commotion, eyeing Peggy, who was dutifully making mudpies and offering them to interested chickens.

The buckskin was pulled to a dramatic stop, a plume of dust and sand rising up around them. The only sound in the yard was the deep, even breaths of the horse.

Steve took off at a run straight at them.

Gripping the shovel to better yield as a weapon, Bucky took four steps towards the stranger before he saw the grin on Steve's face, practically splitting it in two. 

"You old bastard, nothing killed you yet, I see," Steve laughed at the rider, who dismounted the horse, a cloud of dust rising from his impact with the ground.

"Nah, Stevie boy, nothin' has ever figured out how!" The man hollered out, arms outstretched as he continued in his thundering voice, "How the hell are ya, Steve-o?"

There was a dull sounding thump as their chests clashed together in a powerful sounding hug, hands clapping on backs and easygoing jibes passed nonchalantly between them.

Reaching up, the rough-looking rider grabbed Steve's face in his hands and beamed at him, all crinkled eyes and blinding teeth. "Ya look good Steve, look healthy, you even grew a beard, didn't think ya were old enough to do that yet," 

"Oh shut up," Steve rolled his eyes but slung his arm over the man's shoulder.

James watched all of this in confusion, and he realized he hadn't put down the shovel the same second the two of them turned around and looked at him.

"Shovel wouldn't be my first choice, but hey, I've done worse with less," the stranger appraised, face lined with grime from the road, a ragged black feather tucked into the band of his hat.

"Oh," Steve seemed to shake himself, "Clint, this is James, James this is Clint,"

Bucky accepted the firm handshake from Clint, managing a polite half-smile under his curious eye.

"Clint was my partner when I was a hired gun," Steve clarified.

"Partner?" Clint squinted at him with bright green eyes, "I was your  _ boss _ , you could hardly do anythin' without me,"

Steve laughed, happy and light and free, every problem momentarily forgotten.

James couldn't help but stare at the dynamic of the two of them, the way they stood so comfortably next to each other, how they were able to extract boundless laughter from the other with no effort.

Clint surveyed the farm around them, his eyes playful but not missing a detail.

"So how is bein' a farmer treatin' you? I never could picture you with a pitchfork, but it doesn't look half bad here,"

"It's going great, the sprouts are up in the backfield, the garden's coming in, the hens are laying, milk the cow every day, we're going to have two new goats here any day now," Steve looked across the yard at everything, nodding to himself in content. "We're all still going." He shook his head, a look flashing over his face, so quick Buck almost missed it.

Clint caught the expression, caught the sliver of vulnerability, of grief, and he squared Steve's gaze, eyebrows stern, but eyes creased with a dose of concern.

And just like that, it was gone. An entire conversation bounced between two sets of eyes, the exchange of deep and raw emotions, the trust placed in the other for them to even  _ see _ them, all of it happened and vanished in less than two seconds.

Clint's hand reached up and squeezed the back of Steve's neck in a reassuring sort of way, and something ugly gnawed at James from the center of his chest at the ease of the touch.

He tamped it down, not allowing the feeling to burrow too deep.

"Well, look at you!" Clint whistled through his teeth, untangling himself from Steve to sink into a squat, leather chaps groaning.

Peggy hesitated under his attention, grubby finger caught between her teeth as she stared at him. She swayed for a second, her flour sack dress bunched up in her grasp as she stared at the stranger in front of her.

"How old is she now, Steve-o?"

"She's about a year and a half now, gettin' bigger and smarter every day," Steve shone with pride.

"Won't be too long, and she'll be out smartin' you," Clint badgered.

Steve cuffed him in the back of the head, knocking the hat askew.

"Peggy, why don't you come say hello to Clint?" Steve asked, holding out his hands to the little girl, whose eyes were enormous as she took in the rough-looking bounty hunter whose face was so full of dust that his teeth seemed to glow in contrast.

In a scramble of indelicate feet, she rushed to James' side and tried scaling his legs.

"Woah, he's not that scary," Bucky pacified, hoisting the little girl to his hip, her copper curls sticking to his face as she buried her head in his chest.

Steve  _ roared _ with laughter, clapping Clint on the back as he stood up dejectedly. 

"There's somethin' wrong with your kid," Clint admonished, thumping a fist to Steve's chest when he continued his raucous howling. 

"No sir, it looks to me like she's got all the sense in the world, turning you down like that,"

* * *

Farm work was put on hold, the tales of the visiting traveler far more important than the rebellious weeds in the garden.

Clint was devilishly handsome after he washed the dust off his face and left the hat hanging outside. He was older than Steve, his sharp face tanned deeply from the sun, eyes permanently squinted from years training his eyes down the barrel of a gun or the crosshairs of a bow.

Bucky had never been around this sort of person before. Hydra had catered to the rich and seedy, the oily thieves and low-class criminals, nothing as leathered and laid-back as Clint Barton.

Clint's echoing voice belonged in a saloon, the way he pounded the table with his weathered fist or tipped his head back and thundered with laughter, pulling the rest of them into his sure and steady energy.

Peggy sat between Steve and Bucky at the dinner table, not scared enough of the strange man to shy away but unsure to the point of throwing him suspicious glances, much to his amusement.

"Do you remember that killer we tracked through the Appalachians just at the spring thaw was starting?" Clint mused.

Steve groaned at the memory.

"We followed that bastard around for a week and a half through mountain mud while dodging hungry bears and angry natives; it was a  _ nightmare! _ "

"You see, Jamie boy," Clint started, leaning closer to Bucky, elbows on the table and a conspiratory glint in his already sparkling eyes. "Most of the men we catch, they don't go down easy. It usually ends in a brawl or a shootout, and I can count how many times they've gone down easy on a blind blacksmith's hand,"

Bucky found the corners of his mouth curling up at the absurd picture the hunter was painting.

"But this man, this absolute moron of a human being, it was the easiest we've ever caught another human being,"

"I thought you said you tracked him for a week?" Bucky interjected, earning a tsk and a finger-wagging in his face from Clint.

"Nah-uh-uh, James dear, don't interrupt,"

Bucky rolled his eyes, and Steve snorted as he leaned back in his chair, spreading out his imposing limbs.

"We did track him for a week, you're right, but that wasn't part of his capture, it was just the foreplay,"

Steve barked out a laugh, his chair thudding against the floor as he lunged across the table to cover Peggy's ears.

"Language!"

"She's almost grown, she can handle it," Clint brushed him off.

"So this idiot we were tracking, he had killed four people and got away from the militia, that's why we were tracking him, and you'd  _ think  _ that he had enough basic goddamn sense in his head, but that is absolutely not true,"

Clint was still half draped across the table while telling his story, his hands doing half the work of storytelling.

"This dumbass tried setting traps for us, we never got caught in them because we're too smart for that, at least I am," Clint patted Steve on the chest in mock comfort, "so he's setting all these traps, pitfalls and tripwires, tryin' to trick us into falling into the river, all this bullshit,"

Steve kept his hands over Peggy's ears, who wasn't perturbed in the least and continued eating her mashed potatoes, merrily trying to feed Steve too.

"And guess what he does? After all of his  _ hard work _ trying to get us instead of running away like an intelligent person, guess what he does?"

"What?" Bucky asks.

"HE SNARES HIS OWN DAMN FOOT IN THE TRAP, LEAVIN' HIM HANGING BY HIS LEG IN THE TREE FOR US TO FIND!" Clint bellowed with a thundering laugh, his fist connecting with the table so hard the cutlery rattled.

"Oh he was just pissin' mad at us, spittin' and snarlin' like a trapped cougar, I've never seen a man do that before," Clint wiped a laughing tear from his eye, satisfied that he had caused the others to laugh too. 

"Jesus H. Christ, I think we laughed the whole way back to civilization, 'course we had to gag the sonofabitch because he wouldn't let a moment of silence pass by without squawking about how he was gonna kill us,"

"The good ole' days," Steve raised an eyebrow at a toothily grinning Clint.

"Yessir, they were."

* * *

The simmering sun set under the horizon, Peggy was put to bed hours earlier, leaving the men downstairs talking quietly amongst themselves. The only light in the small farmhouse was a single kerosene lamp on the table, casting their faces in flickering orange.

James sat enthralled in the conversation but was unable to keep the sharp little feeling out of his chest as he watched the two of them interact with each other, how smooth and natural it seemed. He knew it was unfair of him to do this; they had known each other for a decade, they had lived together inseparably in that time and depended on the other for survival, he had hardly known Steve for two months. 

The shirt washing debacle a week earlier had not been talked about or even alluded to, and Bucky figured it never would be. Their contact from that point onward was innocent at best, brushing arms and bumped shoulders, and the time that Bucky made Steve hold still so Buck could dig a splinter out of his hand.

And now, Clint sat at the kitchen table, legs crossed over Steve's lap, absorbing all of Steve's attention like a happy cat.

Bucky knew in his whole heart that it was unfair for him to be jealous, but it didn't make the feeling go away.

The tone of the conversations had become less jovial, no more enormous rooming filling laughter or attempts at befriending unsure little girls.

Peter adored Clint, the horses were at ease with him and his gelding, affectionately christened Hawkeye, when he turned him out to pasture. 

The only creature that was entirely against the visitor was Loki.

The cat unapologetically glared at the man from his perch in the rafters of the ceiling, Clint occasionally throwing the feline uneasy glances when the heat of his gaze burned him too much.

The topic at the moment was injuries sustained on the job, and Bucky wondered how they were both still alive, all three of them sipping on whiskey Steve had brought down from the top shelf.

"Broken wrist when Abraham threw me when I tried to have him go after that bank robber in Kentucky," Steve extended his right arm, twisting his forearm in the lamplight, looking for any disfigurement.

"How is my horse, anyway?"

"That snappy sonofabitch is keeping my niece good company in Kaskaskia; you can take him back at any time,"

"Nah," Steve sighed a little ruefully. "I wouldn't have the time to ride him with all the farm work, wouldn't be good for either of us to put him to pasture, he's hardly twelve years old."

"You can always visit,"

Steve nodded.

" 'member when you split your head open falling down that embankment going after that band of thugs?" Steve changed the subject quickly.

"You were convinced I went blind, dragged my sorry ass all the way to town thirty miles away,"

"You couldn't see anything for two full days,"

"I'm fine,"

"You couldn't walk in a straight line for almost a month,"

"Good thing I know how to ride a horse!" Clint argued, shutting down the rest of Steve's argument with a look and turned to Bucky.

"Got this one," he unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt and pulled aside the neck, baring the junction of his neck and shoulder, "When some crazy bastard tried to take a chunk out of me with his teeth." Sure enough, there was a large bite in the shape of a circle on his tanned skin. James found himself leaning closer to get a better look.

"Dear God," he hissed out.

"He was a nasty sonofabitch," Clint affirmed, not bothering to button his shirt back up.

"When that cattle rustler blasted me with his musket," Steve ran his calloused palm over his side, almost lost in thought.

For a second too long, Bucky let his eyes trail the movement as he remembered how warm and steady those hands were when they had touched him. When he glanced away, he looked straight into Clint's eyes.

One of his dusty brown eyebrows quirked up a fraction of an inch, hardly perceptible, but James caught it and understood it immediately. 

"What about you, James? Got any battle scars worth talkin' about?"

Steve visibly tensed in the corner of Bucky's eye, ready to deflect the question, but there was a little bit of whiskey and camaraderie warming James' belly tonight, and he found himself unclasping the cuff of his shirt.

The flickering lamplight didn't do the twisted burn scars any favors, warping them and making them more grotesque.

Clint leaned in for a better look.

"Bottle bomb got me, sliced my arm open and burned me shoulder to wrist,"

It felt weird in his mouth, the admission of what happened. He had hardly even told the doctor what had happened, and here he was, baring his arm for a stranger to see.

Clint whistled under his breath.

"The cut only stopped bleeding a handful of weeks ago," Steve mentioned, eyes on the melted flesh.

"Doctor said I'm lucky to still have any shred of control over it," in a demonstration, he curled his fingers to his palm and back out, arm hovering straight over the table. All eyes in the room trained on the somehow steady appendage.

"Then he ripped his shoulder out of socket the second week he was here, and that's hardly healed too," Steve said, voice a touch lower than before.

"Damn, brother, you have some shit luck,"

James grinned a feral sort of smile that was more of a baring of his teeth. "That's not even the half of what they did to me in New Orleans,"

He didn't elaborate, and the men didn't ask, even though it was practically strangling Steve to keep the questions to himself.

Clint grabbed the bottle of strong tye whiskey and topped off each of their shot glasses.

"To bad luck and good decisions," he raised his glass, the others echoing his toast, and they silently swallowed the shots.

* * *

Steve leaned against the support beam of the barn, watching Clint tack up Hawkeye.

"Do you trust him?" Clint asked, brushing off the buckskin's back before sliding the blanket on the broad expanse of the stallion's back.

"James?"

"Yeah,"

"I do,"

"Are you going to tell him about this?" Clint didn't gesture to anything, but Steve knew exactly what he was talking about.

"He doesn't need to know,"

"He's from the south. He might not like the idea, might even turn you in for it,"

"Clint, we can't expect everyone to like what we're doing, we can't expect everyone to be-"

"Decent Christians?" Clint finished the sentence.

"You know what I mean." Steve sighed.

"He's pretty handsome, don't you think, Stevie?"

"He is?" Steve said, forced casualness in his voice as he scanned the beams in the barn.

"You hadn't noticed?" Clint teased. "If I took notice, you most certainly have seen it tenfold,"

"Can't afford to notice, partner," Steve shook his head ruefully.

"I think you can. You'd be surprised how it might turn out,"

"When did you start knowing everything?" Steve squinted at him as he slung himself up into his horse's saddle.

"Since the beginning of time, brother," 

Steve scoffed.

* * *

No specific thing woke Bucky; it wasn't the midnight moon streaming through the small second-story window into his eyes, it wasn't the creak of the wagon pulling into the yard or the gentle sounds of a horse breaking the silence of the night.

It was the secrecy. 

He had a pension for secrets, something he had never wanted; it had never been something he had sought out or thought to use to his benefit, it just meant that other people told him things that he would rather not know.

Many times in New Orleans, his nose had gotten pinched after being thrust somewhere it hadn't belonged, usually, because someone pushed it there, to begin with. Zola had loved how loose a powerful man's lips got when he was trying to impress a pretty face, and James was meant to remember every word that fell from their unhindered tongues.

Suffice to say, James didn't like secrets, especially the sort he was better off not knowing.

This caused him to not follow his curiosity down the stairs and into the barn. He looked out the small window and watched Clint lead the horse-pulled wagon into the barn; a serious-looking Steve pull the doors shut behind him.

Bucky pulled the sheet over his legs as he reassured himself that it wasn't his business, that he couldn't  _ make  _ it his business. For too long, his business had been secrets, and he didn't want any part of it.

Unless, of course, Steve asked him to be a part of it. Even James wasn't sure how far he'd go for him, what wouldn't he do for him? Where would he draw a line in the sand and refuse to step over it? Could he even say no, or was that word ripped from his tongue by Hydra years ago?

The night pressed into his ears, straining for any sound that might have come from the barn, the spider legs of anxiety skittering down his limbs as he waited for the sun to rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *dramatic gasp* WHAT IS THE SECRET? WHAT ARE THEY HIDING? WHAT IS SO BAD THAT THEY CAN'T TELL BUCKY?? I'd love to hear your theories.   
> Are Clint's eyes actually green? NO. at this point, do I care? NO. Variety is the spice of life and I didn't know whether to base it off of the character or the actor, because frankly, I think basing everything off the actor is a little weird.  
> I did my best with Clint, I'm not rewatching every movie over again for him to have a five minute cameo and for me to learn nothing more about his character, so I made him cocky and overconfident and sweet. Also sarcastic.  
> And a wonderful disclaimer, nothing romantic has happened between Clint and Steve, past present or future. My depiction of Clint is -unfortunately- straight. Any implications to otherwise were a fabrication of James' jealousy, which is a narsty bitch.  
> Damn heterosexuals. They ruin everything.  
> The next chapter is going to be a little weird, and I hope it doesn't change the vibe too much because I hate when books do that like with big time-jumps or huge changes in the premise. The next chapter HAS to happen the way it does in order to set up the rest of the story and have it work the way I want and include everyone I want into it.  
> Everyone that has had character suggestions, I heard you and it's happening, just not yet. All those beautiful people need their own place to shine bright, and an underhanded mention of them WILL NOT DO JUSTICE.  
> Speaking of justice, stay strong my protesting warriors. Change will come whether it's handed to us or we take it for ourselves.  
> Stay safe, stay strong, stay proud. You bow to no one.


	14. An idiot's revelation

HELLO ALL!

Ya girl is so damn stupid, and here's why.

By now, we all know and hopefully appreciate one of the women in Bucky's head, Katarina, to be the hardass scary woman. WELL, originally, she was going to be Natasha, (I hope the dreadfully Russian name of Katarina gave it away)

And the more I think about it, the more pissed I become that she _isn't_ actually Katarina. I thought I would be creative enough to carve out a whole different spot for Nat, but turns out, I AM NOT

THEREFORE!!!

I will be going back and changing every mentioning of Katarina and making her into Natasha. Besides that, nothing else is going to change.

Sorry for being an indecisive shithead.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So, what do you say?" Steve asked hopefully, far too awake than the hour should allow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild warning, I guess, mentions of past abuse and forced abortions/miscarriages. 
> 
> I keep switching between Stevey and Stevie for his nickname, and I'm too damned tired to go back and correct all of it. I hope you all are not here for spelling inconsistencies because that is no way to live.

The coffee set in front of James was a little bitter, and all of the grounds hadn't been filtered out properly, but he sipped from it all the same. 

He was used to early mornings now, but not this early.

Steve had woken him up, something that he never had to do before. Bucky always got up the second the sun streamed in on him from the small window perpendicular to his bed.

Now, the sun was just a tease on the horizon.

"So, what do you say?" Steve asked hopefully, far too awake than the hour should allow.

Bucky blinked at him owlishly over the rim of his tin cup of subpar coffee that had been thrust into his hands by an anxious Steve fifteen minutes earlier.

The conversation they had rattled in his head, not to mention that Steve had  _ shaved off his beard _ , and Bucky wasn't sure if he was actually awake yet.

_ Clint needs me to take something of his to Wisconsin... I'll be gone for a week... Need you to watch the farm..." _

"You want me ta stay here, by ma'self?" Bucky inquired, tired voice allowing for more of his accent to slip in than he cared for. Try as he might, he couldn't look away from his impossibly sharp clean-shaven jaw. By no means did Steve look old, but he looked almost like a kid again without the beard, and it confused Bucky to no end.

"I can bring Peggy to Wanda's if you want me to. I understand if you don't want to watch her alone, I don't expect you to,"

"You want me to take care of the farm? Without you?"

Steve faltered, long fingers tapping on the side of his tin cup, drawing Bucky's attention from his face to his capable hands.

"Is it too much? It's too much to ask, isn't it," Steve sighed to himself, rubbing at his eyes as he sat back. 

In the low lamplight, Bucky was jarringly aware of how  _ much _ Steve was, sitting just three feet away. He took up so much space it was nearly ridiculous, but that wasn't the most distracting part, it was how awake and aware he was of everything around him, his tired blue eyes trained on James and James alone.

He didn't know if he wanted to shrink or flourish under the gaze.

"It's not too much," Bucky lied, not at all liking the harsh line Steve's mouth had become.

"Of course it's too much, Buck," he sighed, "I can't believe that I'm asking you all of this,"

"It's not too much," Bucky repeated, this time with more conviction as he straightened up in the creaky kitchen chair. "It's just," he shrugged a little, unable to meet his eyes, "You're just trustin' me with a lot, you know? It's different when I watch the kid while you're here or when I do the milkin' because you're always here," he shrugged again, swallowing down another gulp of bitter gritty coffee that had been brewed just for him.

"I trust you, if that's what you're getting at, Buck," it was a nickname of a nickname, just one letter and syllable shorter, and it had no business settling as warmly in James's stomach as it did. He told himself that it was just the coffee.

It wasn't.

"With all of it? The farm, the house, Peggy?"

"Yes."

Bucky's back hit his chair quietly as he digested the information, equal parts terrifying and exhilarating. 

"So you'll do it?"

"You'll have Wanda check in on us?" Bucky was frowning, but he couldn't keep the expression while Steve was looking at him with growing excitement.

"She's coming the day after tomorrow,"

"And you'll be back within a week?"

"Around a week or so, yeah,"

"Promise?"

Steve's visible joy that stretched on his face like a piece of fractured sunshine didn't stutter, but it did still on his face.

"Promise what?"

"That you'll come back," now that he was saying this  _ aloud _ , Bucky would very much like the floor to split open and swallow him whole. He knew how childish it sounded, asking for a promise like he was seven again, believing that the word was worth anything more than the energy that it took to utter it.

But Steve didn't laugh or furrow his eyebrows in that concerned way he did when Peggy did something alarming, and more importantly, he didn't scoff in disgust.

"I promise," he nodded, his face so soft and open, eyes crinkled at the edges with such trusting sincerity that it made James want to slug him across the face.

"You better get packing then," was all Bucky had to offer, masking the creeping blush on his face with a sip of coffee.

* * *

Bucky stays sitting at the kitchen table while Steve runs across the farmyard, his long legs led to long strides, carrying him purposefully around. He came up from the cellar and tucked the nearly overflowing russack not that discretely under his arm, but most of all, he kept closing himself into the barn for near ridiculous lengths of time.

There were a hundred questions that James could ask, dozens of loose ends that Steve hadn't tied up in his brief explanation.

He hadn't explained exactly  _ what _ he was bringing to Wisconsin for Clint, especially since the man hadn't brought anything with him larger than his saddle pack, and yet Steve was hitching up the wagon.

Bucky figured that he could ask all of this, but at the same time, he knew the relationship he had crafted with this strange farmer was one built on a haphazard foundation of lies of omission and half-truths.

James couldn't very well get picky about what Steve chose to keep to himself when the man had never once pressured James for stories or explanations of his past.

It was also surmised, begrudgingly, that it was none of Bucky's damn business what all of this was.

* * *

"I'm leaving this rifle here if you need it," Steve pointed to the lovingly polished gun over the fireplace mantle. "And you already know how to use it," he added drily, mostly to himself. "Bullets and powder are kept in this drawer," he directed his pointing finger to the small chest of drawers behind the wickedly steep steps.

Alarm ran through James's head as his anxiety screamed that he would need to use the gun, and the other half of his brain reassured the panic that Steve was just being thorough.

"The money is in the blue jar up above that cupboard," Steve nodded to the nearly invisible jar nestled in between extra mason jars up on the shelf.

Unable to help himself, James raised an eyebrow.

"How do you know I'm not just goin' to take all the money and bolt the second the dust settles behind you?" he antagonized.

"You won't," Steve responded confidently.

"And how do you know that?"

"Because you haven't spent more than a dime of the money I've paid you, and you've been living here for almost two and a half months. You could spend every last cent on whores and booze, and I wouldn't say a word, but all you bought was what?"

"A bar of soap," James grumbled, letting his head fall back to look at the ceiling's boards.

"A bar of soap," Steve parroted. "You coulda robbed us blind the first night you stayed here, but you stayed," Steve shrugged, looking anywhere but the no longer pale line of Bucky's throat, he had tanned nicely under the Illinois sun, and he no longer looked like an emaciated spector. Steve felt unjustly proud and albeit smug about it.

"You're lucky it was my sorry ass that you picked up that day, you coulda done a lot worse than me," James joked, letting the depravity of the statement curl up the corners of his lips, stomach flipping triumphantly when Steve's eyes followed the motion of his mouth.

"You're right, I am lucky," Steve responded flippantly as if that statement didn't throw James to the floor. "I'm going to say goodbye to Peggy; then I'm heading out. I want to leave before the sun's up,"

Belatedly, Bucky glanced out the window and saw that it was still half an hour till dawn. When he looked back, Steve was upstairs.

A few minutes later, he reappeared, a bag in his grip, a tired but awake looking Peggy wrapped around his neck.

She wrinkled her perfect little nose when he kissed her cheek, her tiny hand rubbing over where his beard used to be, but she did not object when she was handed off to Bucky.

Sparing his bag half a glance as he shifted the girl on his hip, James saw one of Peggy's baby shirt, and bonnet hastily tucked into the side of the bag before it was hurriedly slung over Steve's shoulder.

"Goodbye, Peggy, I love you, I'll be back in a week," he rested an enormous palm on her unruly copper curls for a second.

"In a week," he repeated with a quirk of his mouth, giving the top of James's head an affectionate stroke too, pausing for just a moment longer than necessary.

Bucky rolled his eyes and tried to ignore his somersaulting organs.

Thor pulled the wagon full of crates of seed down the driveway with a surefooted step; the sun was just a pink and orange smear on the horizon.

"BYE, STEVIE!" Peggy hollered out, frantically flapping her hands at the small figure, lower lip trembling when he waved his hat back, and an unintelligible shout that must have been a 'goodbye' was lost to the distance.

"He'll be back in a few days," James consoled when she let out a heartbreaking noise, "Don't you worry about it, he'll be back before you know it,"

Peter whined, unconvinced, pressing his head into James's thigh.

* * *

Milking a cow and two goats takes twice as long when a curious little girl has to sit still outside the stantion, but of course, doesn't  _ actually  _ sit still, wandering off after the cat or needing to greet the goats.

Retrieving eggs from the low ceilinged coop was complicated enough, but having to navigate the small, dusty, clucking room half stooped over with a thirty-pound child dangling from your neck was damn near impossible.

Peggy could be brave when Steve was home and wander the farm by herself, but she never let Bucky get out of her sight for the first forty-eight hours, spending most of their time outside latched onto his pant leg or clinging to his back like a baby possum.

* * *

The baking heat of July was only enhanced by the oven roaring in the house, the building too hot to stomach being in for than fifteen minutes.

Bucky and Wanda sat on the covered porch lazily rocking in their chairs as they waited for the bread to bake.

Peggy had animatedly accepted her aunt with open arms and squealing words, rushing to tell the woman about how Steve left. Of course, half of it was nonsense because of her young age, but Wanda treated it like a conversation nonetheless.

The saint of a woman helped James with the wash, taught him how to make a 'proper' loaf of bread, and had strong-armed Peggy into the bath.

Now, with the work on pause, the three of them wafted the hot Illinois air into their faces with paper fans, talking idly.

"How is it, two days without him?"

"If I'm bein' completely candid, a little terrifyin'," Bucky conceded with a half shrug. "Ain't never been alone before, ain't never had to take care of someone by myself either,"

"You're doing good, James. Most men would have taken off a month ago, but we both know you're better than that,"

The compliment had his cheeks burning. He was no stranger to compliments; he had been showered in them daily at Hydra, but middle-aged men and women calling him a 'handsome devil' was different than Wanda assuring him that he had a good character.

Wanda's eyes settled on Peggy, who was busy with her ragdoll whose noble steed was a half-asleep Peter sprawled out on the floorboards. While she watched the little girl talk to herself, her hand rested on her lower stomach, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

James stared at her.

The signs he had once dreaded to find etched in the faces of his friends he was now frantically searching for, the brightness of her eyes, the way her cheeks seemed a little fuller. Bucky wracked his mind in an attempt at remembering how thin she had been the last time he had seen her, and if the subtle bump under apron had been present weeks ago.

He felt his jaw drop as he figured it out.

"What?" Wanda asked, frowning at him.

"Nothing," he clamored, shifting his gaze to the dirt path to the barn. He was not confident enough in his summation to actually  _ ask her _ and risk being wrong.

Wanda rolled her eyes.

"Come here," she sighed.

"What? Why?"

"Just give me your hand," she grunted, holding out an expectant hand for him.

He felt like he was looming over her, and he was probably right. He was already so much taller than her, and she was still seated in the rocking chair, sliding his too big too rough hand over the small swell of her vulnerable stomach.

"The baby will be joining us before the first frost in October," she hummed, pausing the motion with a grin.

"Do you feel that?" she directed the smile up at James, and before he could reply, he felt a squirm under his fingertips.

He couldn't help the gasp, and he figured he'd be forgiven.

"Steve doesn't know yet, and if you could keep the secret until I see him next, that would be appreciated,"

James nodded dumbly, ready, and willing to do whatever Wanda asked him to do.

Tears burned the backs of his eyes. Pregnancies were never a good thing at a brothel, their subject always whispered about when Zola had his back turned, many a crying woman had been lead to the backroom by her friends, not to be seen for a few days afterward.

James had never gotten to feel the fluttering movements tickling his palm, the closest he had ever been was standing watch at the back door while trying to ignore the screams and crying from behind it as the 'problem was being solved'. 

"Will you be sticking around to see if it's a boy or a girl?" Wanda asked almost flippantly, allowing him to keep his still too big and too rough hands on her stomach, even though the baby had stopped kicking.

"I-" he faltered, looking up into her curious eyes. He hadn't remembered squatting down to get a better reach on the belly.

"I don't know how long I'm going to stay, I guess until I get enough money to make it on my own, or if Steve kicks me out first,"

He hadn't seriously thought about what he would do in the future since Peggy had gotten sick. Logically, he knew he was going to have to continue his journey away from the farm, but it was a little unnerving to think about at the moment, with his hand on a baby he was excited to meet and a little girl four feet away that he was the sole caretaker of for a week.

"He'd never kick you out, James. He likes you too much for that," Wanda mused, her hand an alarming contrast where it sat atop James's.

He swallowed hard at the thought.

* * *

Loaves of beautifully golden bread sat in the window to cool, the no longer stoked flames of the cookstove died peacefully, using the last bit of their heat for cooking the stew the two of them chopped vegetables for.

"You ever think about finding a girl? Settle down," Wanda pointed to her stomach, "start your own herd of Barnes babies?"

Thinking of futures had been a dangerous pastime at Hydra, dreaming of what your life would be like if you got away.

"No," he answered honestly, steadily chopping away at his pile of carrots.

"Too busy being a Cassanova to consider having just  _ one  _ girl?" She teased. 

"Never even _had_ the one girl," he joked back.

"You worked in a whorehouse," Wanda objected, sliding a pile of onions into the simmering water.

James visibly cringed. "Those girls spent all day on their backs and knees, I could never do that to them, even though I know they would have done a lot for me,"

Wanda stilled, her hand wrapped around a partially wilted squash. It was amazing how much food survived the winter without rotting to dust, but everything that did survive looked a bit deflated.

"You really loved them, didn't you?"

"The only reason I didn't kill Zola the second I could hold a gun was because most of the girls there were indentured servants,"

"Slaves," Wanda corrected, and James ducked his head in a nod. Zola didn't like the word slave, never let any of them use it when he was talking about his girls. It was a hard habit to break.

"And their contracts with him would be sold to the next highest bidder. I couldn't always keep them safe at Hydra, but I could keep them alive. Couldn't guarantee that if the were sold off,"

Wanda thought for a long time, long enough that James thought maybe they had dropped the conversation, both of them methodically cubing the vegetables and sliding them into the boiling water.

"And you, James? Were you just a card dealer?"

He froze, caught in the unforgiving grip of the memory of sweaty hands pawing at him. Men that reeked of tobacco and women that sweated gin, the sharp crack of a bullet leaving the chamber, and the dull ache between his eyes that appeared every time he pulled the trigger.

"I was a jack of all trades," he responded diplomatically.

"So not just a card dealer,"

"No. I was whatever Zola needed me to be." He dumped the potatoes in the water and leaned against the wall, watching Peggy attempt to stuff her doll into a too-small basket.

" _ Whatever  _ he needed me to be." He rubbed a hand over his face.

"I'm sorry sweetheart; I shouldn't have asked,"

"No, this just means that I'm thinkin' about it now instead of havin' it wake me up tonight as a nightmare," he sighed. The nightmares were terrible, but he never made a sound, and he was thankful because he  _ knew _ that Steve would burst into the room without a second of thought, ready to fight.

"I'm sorry people hurt you," Wanda put down her knife and walked over to him, her arms looping around his back as she pulled him into a hug.

She was soft and warm and small, her head fitting under Bucky's chin, arms squeezing him tightly as her hands rubbed his back.

"Thought I could leave it all behind when I came up north on the river," he murmured, "But I guess it knows how to swim,"

"You can't drown the demons without killing yourself," she responded. "Even if we want to,"

Bucky exhaled heavily, relishing in the sturdy hug he was wrapped in. He had received more hugs in the short time he had been in Aurora Run than he had in decades.

"And you never have to be anything other than a friend and a Bucky again, alright?" She affirmed, using her sleeve to wipe away the budding tears in his eyes.

"Sounds good," he replied shakily, smiling down at the redhead.

* * *

The next four days passed quickly, trying to get everything done before the sun started its merciless reign of pressing heat.

The fourth day brought rain, fat, happy, warm droplets that soaked into the parched soil, drinking greedily from the sky.

Since no one was there to tell them no, Bucky and Peggy laid in the grass in the front lawn, letting themselves get soaked in the downpour. That was, of course, after running around like lunatics with Peter and earning disapproving stares from Loki and Hela from their dry spots peeking out the barn's window.

Only the booming thunder and cracking lightning chased them indoors.

Peter slept in the house every night, reclining his imposing body in front of the door and earning an extra flapjack in the morning for his efforts.

Steve had left on a Tuesday morning at dawn, stating he'd be gone for a week, and when the next Tuesday came and passed without any sign of him, Bucky shrugged it off. There had been a pretty big rainstorm, and he had probably lost a whole day of travel to it.

But it was Thursday night now, and Bucky laid awake, the sharp claws of worry twisting in his gut.

Peggy shared his sentiments; her tiny body took up an unreasonable amount of space in his bed, all sprawled out across his pillow, little mouth open from her adorable baby snores.

An overactive imagination took hold, theories bouncing in his head.

Steve getting caught by highwaymen and killed for his horse and cargo.

Steve falling off the wagon and hitting his head, dying on impact.

Steve crossing a river with the wagon and getting swept away by the storm's surges.

He gnawed on his thumbnail at the thought of Steve simply not coming back, leaving him alone with a farm he didn't know how to take care of and a kid he didn't know how to raise.

Peter growled from downstairs, deep and low.

Bucky slid out of bed as quickly as possible without waking the toddler, creeping down the steps.

Crickets chirped outside, the calming noises of the night ignored as Peter peered out the window, hackles raised.

The small hope James hadn't even known he had been harboring was smushed immediately. Peter would recognize Steve sans the sense of smell in a blizzard.

Bucky peered out the window next to the hostile dog, trying to see what was aggravating him. The yard was empty and dark, but Bucky felt it too. The wrongness hung in the air and prickled up his spine, raising the hair on his neck and chills down his arms.

It could be the wolves; maybe they had come back to try their luck again, or perhaps a panther was sneaking its way through the yard, testing the limits of the locked barn doors.

James reassured himself that he had locked the barn doors, having triple-checked them before coming into the house, the door of which was also locked. 

Carefully, Bucky removed the rifle from its spot over the mantle and slid the bullet into the chamber.

As quietly as he could, he stole a chair from the kitchen table and set it in front of the door.

He settled himself down onto the creaking wood; rifle draped over his thighs as he watched the door.

He was ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that this didn't change the vibe too much, I hate extreme tonal shifts in stories.  
> I wanted the little end part to radiate an anxious vibe, my goal was to emulate that scene from "Little house in the big woods" where Ma is home alone with the girls and also sits in front of the door with a gun, and reading that as a little kid always made me scared and anxious. I don't want to make you all scared and anxious, but I hope it elicits some sort of feeling.  
> Yes, James has had a shitty past, I hate doing that to him. Sometimes I forget that I don't have to make pasts so damn tragic, but I don't know how to do that.  
> Wanda wiped away his tears with hands that had recently touched onions, but it didn't hurt him. Don't think about it too much.  
> NEXT CHAPTER is big things my friends, big things. Big plot movers.  
> Stay resilient my protesting warriors. Change will come whether it's handed to us or we take it for ourselves.  
> Stay safe, stay strong, stay proud. You bow to no one.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry? Maybe...  
> I'd hate being on the receiving end of this as a reader but as a writer, damn does it feel good.

It had been a handful of months since Steve had to spit out a mouthful of blood, and he was pretty sure there was a molar in there too.

It was safe to assume he hadn't meant to get caught.

Thor was a good horse and didn't throw him for reeking of blood, but his ears laid plastered against his skull, nostrils flaring with the stench.

Steve wasn't going to lie; it was bad. His consciousness was flickering at best, darting in and out at inopportune moments, and only by the grace of God and the forethought of tying himself to Thor, did he not slip off his broad back and get trampled.

Something was wrong with his wrist, he could feel it, more so, how he  _ couldn't _ feel it. In the fleeting moments he could cognitively see his surroundings, his right hand looked stiff and purple, knuckles swollen in a way that registered in his mind as bad.

Not much he could do about it, hardly able to keep his eyes open, blood clogging his nose and throat.

_ "Promise you'll come back?" _

_ "I promise." _

Steve wanted to apologize, to fight the blurriness of his vision, the crunch of his ribs, the odd angle of his hand, but how can you fight when you can't move?

Unconsciousness seduced him, pulling him under the black cresting waves and crushing him into the foggy embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all ever watch the public tv show 'Between the Lions"? if so, you'll understand this...  
>  !!!!!CLIFF HANGER!!!!!  
> Can't  
>  hold   
>  on   
>  much  
>  longer!!  
> I'm done being a vile human, next INFORMATIVE and SATISFYING chapter coming soon.  
> And as always, stay strong. Stay proud. Black Lives Matter.


	17. Part Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter sort of got away from me, and I definitely made Steve abandon some of his stricter moral codes, and though I understand that not everyone can be as morally gray as I am, I like this version of Steve better. If you'd like to argue with me that Steve wouldn't have done what he did and... taken care of... of the mentioned people in the chapter because he's not about that ~murdering life~, then let's go and have a conversation.  
> I think I should share one of the chapter reference notes that was on my screen for a majority of the time I was writing this chapter, and I think you can all appreciate it.  
> "STEVE IS, AND I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH, A TOTAL FUCKING MESS."  
> A stellar observation on my end, really.

Fear didn't stand a chance with James that morning. He had spent too many nights with his hands curled around the stock of a gun to be scared of them anymore, too many mornings had yielded bloodshot eyes and no target. He was more pissed off than tired.

Dawn was a mist in the air, the cold fog a sharp contrast to the heat that would bake the day.

With an alert black cat at his side, James walked around the farmstead; rifle held to his chest as he scanned the fenceline, relying on instincts to sus out the danger.

Peter had been less than enthusiastic when Bucky told him to stay in the house with Peggy, Loki had invited himself along with a bored yawn and exaggerated stretch.

The smokehouse was fine, the cellar untouched, the livestock unbothered. Whatever it had been, it was good at being a predator.

James would find that more unnerving if he weren't livid at the thought of something having the  _ audacity  _ to come after his farm.

There wasn't enough time to walk the entire fenceline before Peggy woke up, so Bucky settled for scanning the fields as best he could, squinting at the posts and seeing if the boards had been tampered with.

He wasn't above shooting a cattle rustler. He really wasn't.

Loki paused beside him, elegant black nose lifted as he sniffed the air. Had it been any other cat, Bucky wouldn't have paid attention, figuring him to have found a field mouse or a female in the distance.

But Loki, no matter how annoying he was, was a perceptive little shit that was just as prepared to streak out the house with claws bared as Peter was the night before.

The tomcat didn't yowl or growl; his hackles didn't raise to collar his shoulders; he simply walked to the edge of the grass and peered down at the dirt, tail flicking.

James, happy that no one was there to see him heed the beckon of a barn cat, stepped closer.

Partially obscured by the tall grass and hardly visible, was a boot print in the dirt.

It pointed toward the farm.

Bucky's scalp prickled, and he scanned the yard from his vantage point but saw nothing out of the ordinary. He didn't like the idea of not having the high ground, not having a bird's eye view. He wondered how he would explain it to Steve if he were to show up while Bucky was lying on the roof of the barn, peering at the lawn through the scope of a gun.

Loki sniffed the boot print one more time for good measure, and then was suddenly  _ dreadfully _ bored, rubbing up on Bucky's legs before plopping his considerable self in front of him, rolling suggestively.

"You're not worried?" Bucky found himself asking.

Loki gave a noncommital half meow.

Not stupid enough to base his entire opinion on the reactions of a chaotically malevolent cat, James walked back to the house, half of him relieved he hadn't found anything, the other half itching for a fight.

* * *

The haze of the day never broke, heavy and thick. It pressed down from the sky that was streaked with gray, teasing at the chance of a drizzle of rain.

The day had passed James by, uneventful but tense, between the charged air of the impending rain, Steve still not home yet, and the uneasiness from knowing a stranger had prowled the farm the night before, Bucky was on edge.

He'd give Steve one more day, and then he was taking Peggy and his tired self to Wanda's.

Peggy had been put to bed earlier; her palm-sized wood-carved horses that spent the day running around the yard with her had effectively worn her out.

She had staked her claim rather quickly on his bed, her busy little body already worming its way under his covers by the time he made it up the stairs.

James had been alone long enough to appreciate the company, even when it was the form of a little girl that kicked like a jackrabbit in her sleep.

Deep in his bones, Bucky knew that it would be another sleepless night, and he didn't feel very guilty at all when he put a sizable dent in the coffee reserve.

For a few seconds every night, since Steve had left ten days ago, Bucky would stand on the porch with a tin cup of coffee in his hand and pretend that the farm was his.

Some nights, he loved the idea. It was a radical thought that he was worth enough to own land and take care of animals, animals that depended on him. Oh, it was  _ thrilling _ to think that something could thrive under his care, that something could grow and survive and trust him always to do the right thing.

Some nights, he hated the idea. It bubbled in his chest, the skittering spider legs of anxiety fluttering across his chest at the ridiculous notion that he was the only thing that was keeping the farm alive, even if it was just for a few days. He had lived for long enough under the crushing weight of Zola's thumb to  _ actually  _ believe that he could be enough; it was a joke to think it.

But the good nights outweighed the bad, and Bucky supposed that it meant progress.

The dull stamping of hooves on a dirt path pricked James's ears at the same time Peter's head popped up in the dutch door, ears quirked to the sound.

James brushed passed Peter as he moved through the house, lifting the gun off the mantle hooks.

He wasn't fucking around anymore.

Peter followed him back out the door, hopping down the steps to better watch the path and look for the horse.

It was a big horse, whatever it was, tall and broad and thick.

An excited but distressed whinny flew from the mouth of the encroaching horse, instantly echoed by Hela in the barn.

Peter's tail started wagging, fast and furious.

All the tension Bucky had been holding for the past ten days dropped all at the same time, and he almost lost his grip on the gun.

But as he watched the stallion pick his way steadily up the drive, certain things started clicking in Bucky's mind.

There was no wagon.

Thor hadn't picked up his pace at all, even with the thrill of finally being home.

Peter's vigorously thrashing tail slowed as the two drew closer, his nose raised to the air.

Bucky stepped off the porch before Peter had finished pronouncing his scared whine.

A deep throaty nicker greeted James as he took the slack reins of the stallion in his hand, the other smoothed over his thick chestnut neck. Thor was exhausted and sweaty, but happily bent down to touch noses with a still alarmed Peter.

In the saddle, Steve swayed, his left hand fisted so tightly around the saddle horn that his knuckles were white.

"Steve?" James asked, suddenly unsure.

"Hey Buck," he rasped out, throat clogged and raw.

Old dried blood stained his face and the collar of his shirt, his face and cheek a garish shade of purple and blue; his bottom lip split nearly in half.

" _ Jesus Christ,"  _ Bucky marveled, hands reaching out to touch, but he pulled back hesitantly about what else was broken. "What happened to you?"

Steve answered, but it was nothing but a mumble as he leaned forward in the saddle, trying to swing his leg over in an attempted dismount.

Thor, ever the sweetheart, stood perfectly still, even in his apparent exhaustion, allowing Steve to slide off his body.

Bucky was thankful he had set down the gun because he had hardly a second to react before he was grabbing Steve, who had started to fall backward.

"Woah, friend," he yelped, Steve's back crashing into his chest.

A hissing growl of pain left his bloodied mouth at the contact, but he straightened up out of the hold nonetheless.

"Unhook his girth," Steve mumbled, having no choice but to accept Bucky's support if he wanted to stay upright.

And James thought it was hard to collect eggs with an extra thirty pounds hanging off him; he had obviously never undone the girth of a saddle while a grown man leaned on him.

The saddle crashed to the ground, and Bucky wondered if he should put the stallion in the barn, but Thor strode past them, and in one motion, stuck his head to the bottom of the water tank, gulping loud enough for the sound to fill the yard.

Bucky stumbled up the porch steps, bowing under the imposing weight of Steve's body with each footstep.

A panicking voice in the back of his mind squawked and hollered about how he was right all along in his worries, there  _ was _ something wrong, and that's why he was so late.

Another voice, equally as shrill, warned him that this was too much to handle, that he needed to get Doc Banner or Wanda, or literally anyone else to help because this was  _ not _ something that he could possibly do.

Peter whined as Bucky and Steve shuffled their way into the farm house's kitchen, Bucky wrapped pulled out one of the mismatched chairs with his foot and carefully tried to set Steve down in it.

The rise and fall of Steve's chest shuddered under the effort of each inhalation, a gasping growl torn from his throat as he settled into the creaking wood.

A few frantic seconds of tearing around the kitchen and the kerosene lamp on the table was lit, throwing flickering light on the hideously colorful bruises plastered on Steve's face.

"What's broken?" Bucky asked, carefully pulling the hat off of his head. It, too, was crusted in blood.

"Few ribs. Ma' nose." he glanced down at his right wrist and the swollen fingers. "Fucked up my wrist." His voice was thick and clogged from his broken nose, making his words hardly understandable.

_ What happened what happened what happened what happened what happened  _ danced in Bucky's mouth, hammering away at his clenched teeth, trying to get out.

Instead, he walked quickly to the small curtained off washroom in the corner and grabbed the pitcher.

Dried blood washed down his mouth and chin in a morbid beard, and James cautiously set to work to see if there was any other wound underneath the blood. In the places that the shade of his hat hadn't reached had been scorched by the unforgiving sun.

The search for facial wounds yielded nothing by a split lip, and James set the bloodied rag on the table. Steve's eyes had drifted shut, his breathing pained but not bubbly.

"Can I check your ribs? Make sure there's no funny business with them?" Bucky whispered. He knew the horrible, grating pain of broken rib ends grinding together with every breath, but he also knew the dangers of a cracked off rib stabbing into a lung.

"Yeah," Steve grunted, peeling open nearly swollen shut eyes.

With as little pressure as possible, Bucky skimmed his fingertips over Steve's ribcage, searching for any jut of bone or tear in his skin. All he got was a grunt of pain when his fingers brushed over the broken ribs, but he couldn't feel anything out of the ordinary, except, of course, for the heaving muscles under his touch.

_ Now is not the time, Barnes, _ he scolded himself.

"Have you thrown up blood?" he questioned, poking at Steve's stomach for internal bleeding, and he chose to ignore how close he was standing. You don't grow up a street urchin in the slums of New Orleans without knowing one hundred and one ways a fight could kill you better than a knife.

"You a doctor now, Bucky?" Steve tried to tease but sucked in a breath when his attempted smirk reopened his split lip.

"Answer the question."

"No. No blood, except the gallon that came outta my face," he grumbled, most of the sentence lost to his fat lip and broken nose.

"Lemme see your wrist," James squatted down at Steve's knee as Steve slid his swollen arm down his thigh, both of them watching the limb tremor with the motion.

He didn't want to, but James carefully ran his fingers over the sides of his wrist, hoping to  _ god  _ he wouldn't find anything out of the ordinary. The bone's alignment was reasonably straight; nothing stuck out at an odd angle, the swelling perhaps was the only thing keeping the bone from moving.

Steve didn't say a word, but his other hand choked the life out of the neighboring chair.

"Do I need to go get Doc Banner tonight, or do I wait until morning?" Bucky queried up at Steve as he started unlacing his boots.

"I'm fine, really. Jus' need ta sleep for a minute, thas all," Steve said around the swelling in his face.

"I'll get him in the morning, then." Bucky raised an eyebrow, daring him to argue.

He didn't.

Steve was a mess of blood and dirt and shame as Bucky tugged off his boots and socks. James knew he'd be well within his rights to start questioning him, to demand answers of  **_ what the hell happened? _ **

But he didn't. He wanted to, though. He kept his lips shut in a tight line as he had to lean closer to Steve in order to get the gun holster off of his belt, a bit relieved to find the pearl-handled revolver still in the leather holster. He could cross thieves off his list unless they weren't very good ones.

Steve's left eye was a little less swollen than the right, and it was a narrowed slit as he watched Bucky patiently move around him, brushing dirt off his clothes in an excuse to stay near.

"Where are you goin' to sleep? Am I hauling you up the stairs?"

Steve sighed a slow, agonized breath that smelled like blood.

"Rug," he grunted.

It took a few minutes to find all the extra blankets and pull them from shelves and from the bottoms of old chests, carefully arranging them on the floor for Steve to sleep on.

Bucky worried his bottom lip as he stared down at the pile, wondering if he had checked all of the places blankets could be hiding.

"It's nice, Buck, really," Steve reassured, straightening his back with a pop so he could stand.

It was easier getting him six feet across the house than off a horse, and up the porch steps, James could admit as much. It was hard to find a place on the man to grab that wouldn't hurt him in some way, and Bucky murmured apologies as they walked to the nest of blankets.

Steve hummed low in the back of his throat in an attempt at warding off shouts of pain, and it was appreciated. It was for the best that Peggy wasn't awake right now to see all of this.

Stretched out with his head and torso a bit elevated so that he wouldn't choke, in case Bucky was wrong, and there was some blood in his lungs. He carefully rolled up Steve's coat for a place to rest his wrist.

"Thank ya, James. Really. I mean it," he whispered, eyes already closing, broken body twitching as sleep dragged him down.

* * *

Thor put up no fight to go into the barn, accepting Bucky's tender touches with a bowed head and relieved sigh. There was blood on his chestnut coat, but it didn't belong to the horse.

The sheer size of the horse still intimidated Bucky, but he forced himself not to be bothered as he carefully brushed down his body and washed the dried patches of blood off his neck where no doubt Steve's hands brushed to grab his reins.

Bucky was not a good enough person to pick up the saddlebags and  _ not _ dig through them, so he paused in the yard, scanning the contents. It was nothing special, just food and water, a firestarter, and extra bullets. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but there was nothing in the bag to offer him clues.

_ Who  _ exactly, did he move in with?

* * *

Bucky settled under his covers fully clothed, understanding that he wouldn't be getting very much sleep. He realized this after he had checked on Steve twice in half an hour, listening to his deep, even breathes.

It would be a long night.

* * *

As one would assume, Peggy spent the next morning glued to Steve's side, petting his shoulder and kissing his face, murmuring _ 'oh no! Oh no!'  _ every time he tried to move.

Doc Banner didn't ask many questions as he followed Bucky back to the farm, early enough in the morning that the sun was still yawning at them.

The quiet curly-headed man sat next to Steve on the floor, pretending that Peggy wasn't distracting as she stroked the top of Steve's head like she does to soothe Peter.

When it came time for Dr. Banner to set Steve's wrist, James scooped her up and went to see the goats, one of which looked like it was ready to burst open at any second with the size of its pregnant belly.

"He'll live," Banner said after walking out on the porch, looking at Bucky, who was letting Peggy play with his hair. He was too tired to stand to greet him.

"Broken wrist, three broken ribs, broken nose, and enough bruises to leave him sore for a month. He's lucky he didn't get a concussion. His skull might be too thick for that, though," he joked, a wry smile playing at the edge of his mouth.

James snorted. "I'd say," he mumbled.

For a moment, Bruce paused, looking out across the farm, at the wandering chickens and the grazing cow, the lush growing fields that somehow didn't get flattened by the torrential rains.

"What do I do?" Bucky couldn't help but ask, couldn't keep his mouth shut from the questions. "How do I take care of him?"

Banner's eyes softened.

"Lots of rest. Don't let him lift anything more than Peggy," the girl glanced up from her artful tornado of Bucky's hair, "He'll just hurt himself more, and it'll take longer to heal. Don't let him be too stubborn,"

"So, don't let him be Steve?"

Banner laughed, a pleasant noise that crinkled his eyes. "Yes, I guess that's what I'm saying. You can yell at him if he tries anything stupid, god knows Sharon always did,"

"Thank you, Doc." Bucky sighed, scooping a squirming toddler under his arm while he stood up, shaking the doctor's hand. Peggy grinned at him from her upside-down view.

"If he gives you any problems, you know where I am. I'll be coming back in a few days to make sure his wrist is doing good. I'll see you then."

The day hadn't been as hot as the week prior, and James was thankful beyond belief. All the exhaustion of ten days alone hit him at once, making his shoulder sag.

"Iss okay, my Bucky, iss okay," Peggy reassured as he hesitated in the doorway after they had waved at the leaving doctor. Her perpetually sticky baby palms patted his cheeks and smoothed his hair.

"I know, love. I know." he smiled at her, wondering how she always knew what was going on.

* * *

Steve was a good patient for the rest of the day, but only after Bucky followed Banner's suggestion and quite literally growled at Steve when he tried to do too much on his own.

"I'm not an invalid, James, I can get around on my own," Steve grumbled at him, ineffectively dodging his attempts at helping him sit down.

"I'm aware," Bucky reassured, holding onto his good arm to lower him into the chair in front of the fire, handing him Peggy's hairbrush. The girl happily wiggled onto his knees, careful not to touch his abdomen or wrist.

"Then let me move around,"

"No."

"James!" Steve complained, glowering at him from his still swollen eyes from his blue and green bruised face.

"Doc Banner said to go slow and stay quiet,"

Grumbling under his breath, Steve gently ran the brush through Peggy's hair, and Bucky was sort of glad he couldn't hear what he was muttering because Steve couldn't afford to be swatted on the back of his head too.

James gnawed on the insides of his cheeks as he worried.

* * *

Having every intention of going to bed at the same time Peggy did, Steve was confused when Bucky pointed at the pulled out kitchen chair.

"We need to talk about what happened," he said solemnly. He didn't want to talk about it; he didn't want to go poking around where it wasn't his business, because Steve had shown the same courtesy to him for all of these weeks. Not about the burn, the bad dreams that he undoubtedly heard, the fear of guns, the hatred of gambling, none of it was ever questioned.

But he knew that his past was not going to follow him up the river, he wasn't sure that whatever got the drop on this two hundred some pound ball of muscle and experience, had not tagged along in his shadow, ready to bite them all in the ass.

For a moment, Steve stared at him, and Bucky accepted the sharpness of the look, eyes so blue it made the bruises on his face more abstract.

Steve sat down without Buck's help, it was shaky, and his knuckles turned white where they gripped the edge of the table, but he did it alone.

Bucky slid him a cup of coffee.

"I didn't ask last night because you could hardly form a sentence, and I didn't ask this morning because Peggy was around to hear it, and I don't know what to expect."

Steve nodded.

James tapped his fingers on the rim of his cup, nervous energy needing an outlet, as always.

"What the hell happened?"

Steve inhaled slowly, the only way to breathe when one has broken ribs, and let it out just as slow. His swollen eyes shifted from Bucky to the ceiling to the door, then back again.

"I got attacked by wolves," he said, firm enough that it wasn't a question, but just barely.

James's jaw clenched as he leaned across the table, eyes shrewd.

"I just put you back together again like goddam Humpty Dumpty, and you have the fuckin' balls to  _ lie to me right now?"  _ he seethed, not caring that he was exceeding the appropriate levels of anger to be throwing at his technical boss.

Steve sighed and ran his good hand through his hair, pulling it on end.

"You're right." he conceded.

"Damn straight I am," James growled quietly, leaning back against his chair to stare down the man in front of him.

"It's a long story, Buck, are you sure you want to hear it?"

"I've got time." He crossed his arms over his chest, coffee forgotten.

"It's Clint's fault, really," Steve said after some unwavering eye contact and a brittle sigh.

In a roundabout way, James had been expecting this.

"About seven years ago, we were out in the bayou in Mississippi, we were looking for a murderer, and we saw him go into the swamp. But we found someone else instead,"

Steady blue eyes watched him, analyzing his face for something Bucky wasn't sure he had.

"His name was Isaiah Pierre."

Bucky blinked. The name meant nothing to him.

"He was an escaped slave from a plantation about twenty miles back, and he was being chased by a mob and a pack of dogs, I don't know how we didn't hear them until we saw him. He thought we were part of the mob, and he turned to run from us, but," Steve paused, eyes tightening at the memory. "But his ankles were shackled together, and he fell."

"I had never seen a slave before, this was the furthest south we had been, and thankfully, we had avoided them up until that point. But we couldn't just let him die, and I'd never seen Clint get off his horse so fast in my life. The bayou's mud was snottier than shit, but when it stuck to you, it wouldn't let go. He started grabbing handfuls of it and smearing it all over Isaiah, promising him that we would get him out of there."

"I was so scared of getting caught with him, I knew the punishment for helping free a slave was steep even for the whites, but I never said a word. And finally, when you couldn't see hardly any of Isaiah, when he was more mud than person, Clint slipped the black bag over his head that we put on all of the convicts, and I helped him throw him over the back of his horse."

Steve prodded his face with his fingertips as his eyes unfocused with the memory. "We walked our horses right passed the lynch mob, and when they asked what the hell we were doing, we told them that we were bounty hunters, and we had caught Ellis Harmond, the man we were looking for, and we're bringing him to the marshal. And they believed us. Isaiah stayed perfectly still on that horse with a group of fifty men that wanted him strung up in a tree, and he didn't so much as twitch."

Steve blew out an impressed breath.

"We took him to the nearest safe house we could find. Gave him as much money as we could, Clint gave him a hunting knife. And then he was on his way to the nearest Free state, and probably further up to Ontario."

"And we never stopped after that. We were never in one place for too long, so we couldn't have a safe house, but we still helped as much as we could. We'd drive wagons full of runaways and transport them to the next house; we'd ride behind groups of people and warn them if they were being followed, we'd do anything to make sure they weren't caught. Anything."

Steve's eyes hardened. "I take no shame in saying that I put a bullet between a few eyes that had taken aim at children running towards freedom."

"So," Bucky frowned, bypassing the fact that Steve had just admitted to murder, "The wagon wasn't full of seed,"

"No."

"And when Clint left early and then came back late..."

"He brought a wagon of people. That's why I was so insistent on leaving early,"

Bucky took a drag of coffee. It was cold. He didn't care.

"Wait, you knew that he came back that night? Why didn't you say anything?"

"None of my business," he shrugged.

Steve frowned at him as much as he could through the swelling.

"You still haven't told me how you got your ass handed to you,"

"It was five against one, it was hardly fair," Steve defended without any ferocity. "I got caught. I hadn't meant to, obviously. Everyone else got away fine; the patrollers caught up after everyone else was long gone in the woods. I sure did pay the price though," he sighed, taking a drink from his own cup, not caring that it was cold either.

If Bucky were more polite, he would have poured them a new cup, but he wasn't, so he didn't.

"They took the wagon?"

"Yessir, and everything in it, seed and supplies. The only reason they didn't nab Thor too was that he kicked one of them in the face, I got one of them in the leg with my pistol, then they beat the shit of me. They figured I meant business when I shot another one of them. Left me alone after that."

Bucky stared at him with a slack jaw, everything he had thought about the man recalibrating in his mind.

"Why didn't you tell me?" was all he could come up with after staring for too long.

"You're from Louisiana, the heart of slave country. I couldn't have you go around and muckin' up the plans. Didn't know if you'd be on board or not,"

Bucky was struck in the face with the memory of Ororo and all the other girls from Hydra, and how he would've given anything to buy their freedoms.

"You don't have to worry about me, Stevey boy. You should bring me along next time; I don't give warning shots to pattyrollers."

* * *

"Goddammit,"

Bucky heard the curse from his spot at the kitchen table, sipping on coffee. He raised an eyebrow at the utterance.

"Language," he muttered, just loud enough for Steve to here him but not wake the still sleeping Peggy upstairs.

Steve huffed and pulled open the curtain of the little washroom, followed by the scent of soap. Doctor Banner was coming back today to check on him, and Bucky was relieved to say that he could see significant improvements in Steve. He could walk on his own, and most, if not all, of the swelling was gone from his face.

Doc had wrangled him into a sling to keep his wrist elevated, and though it seemed like he had gotten that back on himself okay, he had some other problems.

Bucky offered no help, and he understood that he was petulant in wanting Steve to ask for his assistance.

More than six feet and two hundred pounds of confidence and muscle,  _ Steve Rogers sulked _ as he walked up to Bucky.

"I can't button my shirt," he frowned, dangerously close to pouting.

Bucky couldn't help but grin, and he did little to control the sharpness of it. He got up from his chair, gesturing for Steve to take his place. The thought of making him say ' _ please _ ' for it writhed nicely in his mind, but even that particular hedonism knew its place and kept itself locked away.

Bucky hadn't thought he had wanted revenge for the stress Steve had put him through, he didn't think himself to be the vengeful type, but he was in the mood for a bit of retaliation. He had learned how from the best, after all.

_ Closer than necessary _ would be the title of the moment, James, with his knees pressed into Steve's, bent a little too close, hands taking too long to line up the button with the hole.

Steve's back collided softly with the back of the chair; chin tilted up to look at Bucky, confused.

James knew how to play it up, how to make it better, and look better too, but he was going to play it up for  _ Steve _ , and that made his stomach clench and flutter.

He smelled good from nine inches away, like the fresh clove soap that Wanda had brought with her the last visit. A thirteen-day old beard scruffed his unreasonably sharp jaw; steady blue eyes stared him down. James's confidence faltered, fingers fumbling on the next button.

He cleared his throat, leveling back the gaze. "I was too caught up last night to tell you how stupid it was to go out and do that all by your lonesome,"

"I had to do it,"

"I understand fully why you had to do that, but it was still stupid to do it alone,"

James drifted a little closer; it would have been unknowingly if every inch of his body wasn't roaring at the contact.

"You're right," Steve conceded.

"You could also stand to say that more often,"

Steve hummed instead of joking back. He didn't question why it was taking Bucky twice as long to button his shirt or why he was leaning so close, because then he would have to raise the question of why he opened his knees a fraction of an inch, letting Bucky get closer yet?

"Wasn't much fair, either, you going out alone, leaving me here with a farm I don't know how to take care of and a girl I don't know how to raise," he continued, knuckles brushing against his abdomen as he carefully buttoned his shirt. He wondered if he was grazing bruises as he went down because his stomach kept clenching at each touch.

Steve didn't answer, so Bucky went on.

"I don't know what I'm doing, and you could've died out there, and no one would have found you for months, maybe ever," he finished buttoning the shirt but didn't move away. He gently turned down the collar of the shirt, having to touch his neck to get the collar untwisted, Steve's chest hitching when Bucky's calloused fingers brushed over his pulse.

James almost apologized but wondered for a split second if it wasn't because of pain that he had paused breathing.

The thought was terrifying and exciting, his stomach soaring and falling at the same time.

"Take Clint with you next time. He's got nobody waiting on him to come home,"

"I'm sorry, Buck, for making you worry," Steve said, voice deep and rumbling. James  _ knew _ how deep his voice was, he had lived here for weeks, had heard that voice yell across fields and whisper to Peggy, he was somewhat familiar with it, but not from this close. It reverberated in Steve's chest where James's hands still rested, tingling up his arms and jumpstarting his heart.

"I'm still pissed at you, though. I'm gonna keep at it for a bit too, make you feel bad about it," he murmured, unwilling to admit that he couldn't trust his voice at the moment.

"I understand," Steve copied his tone, "I'd be pissed too,"

"Alright then, good."

James didn't quite remember making the decision, but it was made, and it was happening, and his heart pounded in his chest, threatening to crash out of his ribcage.

Thirteen-day old stubble scratched at his mouth, a creak in his back scolded him for holding this bent angle for too long, and his body clicked into flight or fight mode, but it all felt miles away.

Steve didn't push him to the floor, didn't curse him out, or wipe his mouth. He sat there, warm and still, a quiet, surprised inhale the only noise in the room.

Panic flooded James's body as the mouth under his was unresponsive for too long, every decision he had ever made leading up to this flashed in his mind, quick and cruel. Had he gotten it wrong? Were the looks and teasing nothing more than just that? How could he have been so wrong?

Steve's good hand snaked out, grabbing the front of Bucky's shirt, and in the split second that he was prepared to be thrown to the ground, Steve pulled him closer.

James's eyes flew open as he was yanked nearer, and he had to stumble a step towards him to keep from crashing into Steve, the hand fisted around his shirt, insisting on  _ closer yet _ .

It was chaste, and patient, and  _ safe. _ The safety of it curled into Bucky's mind, as soft and reassuring as the hold on his shirt.

It was wonderfully clarifying and terrifyingly confusing, an equal ratio cocktail that offered to have him doped up for a week.

Bucky waited in the back of his mind for Steve to start taking more, for his calloused hands to start groping, for his hungry hips to rut against his own in an attempt to satiate, his deep voice rumbling for  _ more, more, more. _

Instead, he kissed Bucky deeply, his good hand releasing the death grip on his shirt only to move up into his hair, coarse fingers threading through the tangled mess to bashfully pull his face closer still.

They forgot how to breathe, and it was okay, but the cut on Steve's lip gave up before they did.

Steve hissed, and James pulled away, the fingers rooted in his hair not letting him go far.

The realization of what happened hit them both at the same time as they stared wide-eyed at each other. Steve's hand fell from Bucky's hair.

Neither said a word, and James took a step back, running a nervous hand through his hair, but it didn't feel nearly as good as Steve's hand did.

Steve stared at him, a rosy pink settled into his cheeks, somehow showing through the bruising, glittering blue eyes settling on Bucky's mouth as he licked his lips. A shiver ran through his body, doing no favors to the broken bones, but it hardly mattered.

_ About damn time, _ Natasha grinned in Bucky's mind, sharp and feral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am just realizing how heavily I rely on the time of day to set the mood of a story. I hope I'm forgiven.  
> How do I write the rest of this fic without painting Steve as a white savior? I'm really trying to avoid that, please let me know if you have any tips or if I fail and need to revise.   
> I just got my ribs tattooed (again) and christ I forgot how much that shit hurts. Breathing is an adventure now.  
> If you are have read literally any other story of mine, you will find that I have a common theme of romance happening while someone is patching up another person. I would say that is is a problem, and it very well might be, but I have no intention of straying from that theme.  
> As always, stay safe, stay strong, keep protesting, and saving the world. Black Lives Matter.


	18. Part 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Split perspective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did *some* research on how birthdays were celebrated in the rural communities of pioneer America during the 1850s, but shockingly, I couldn't find much. So I just took modern birthday parties and toned it down a bit because I adamantly refuse to do any more than 7 minutes of research on anything nonoffensive. I doubt any of you are going to be offended if I incorrectly portray a birthday party, and I'll be concerned for you if you are.

There was nothing that you could say that would convince James that Wanda wasn't a saint.

The woman had shown up just as the sun was peeking over the horizon with her army of children and her shy husband, and took over the house in a flurry of hugs and swishing skirts.

Steve, ever so thoughtful, had given Bucky less than a twelve-hour notice that today was Peggy's second birthday.

Wanda sent them all off on different tasks, and Bucky was able to slip away to pick the girl the biggest bouquet of flowers he could fit in his arms, and he was willing to get poison ivy to get all the flowers he wanted.

As he walked through the small woods that led down to the creek, picking daisies and brown-eyed Susans as he went, his mind wandered as usual.

It had been a week and a half since Steve had come home broken and battered, a week and a half since he had spilled the proverbial beans about the underground railroad that was so underground, James hadn't noticed it being operated not twenty feet from where he slept.

 _A week and a half since you had the best god damn kiss of your life,_ Claudette pointed out in his mind. He tried pushing away the memory, but it caught him by the jugular, and it wasn't letting go.

He always heard the girls at Hydra talking about kisses that were so good that they made your knees weak or made you swoon. He had rolled his eyes at Polly, who had likened kissing Hezekiah Craw to drinking sweet iced tea in the midday sun. 

He wouldn't go as far as to say that Steve kissed like sweet iced tea, but he understood the analogy a little better, especially since he was gnawing on his lips as he thought. 

It tore him up, a little bit, to think about it. And how much he wanted to do it again and again.

Steve didn't go to church every Sunday, but that didn't take away from the obvious problems at hand, and it did very little to quell the storm in his mind.

But it couldn't be all that bad, right? God hadn't smote him down the first time he had kissed a man, and certainly not after all the nights he had spent on his back or on his knees.

And Steve had kissed him back, sweetly and kind and so _right_ that it made his bones feel hollow just thinking about it, so hollow he could fly away.

The mass of flowers in his grasp was pathetically small, so he set deeper into the woods to find more.

* * *

Peter, damn him, was going to give Peggy's present away before she could open it. He found the box on the porch, and it was Steve's fault for not hiding it in a better place, and he kept sniffing it, ears all quirked up to the side and head tilted.

"Go away," Steve hissed, batting at the dog.

Peter wandered down the steps of the porch, not breaking eye contact with the box.

Steve's attention was pulled from the laughter and conversation from inside the house to what looked like a walking flower garden. He assumed it was Bucky behind the wall of wildflowers, and sure enough, shoulder-length black hair and a frowning face peered out from around the curtain of flora to see the porch steps.

"I don't think you picked enough flowers," Steve teased, offering no help from where he leaned against the porch railing.

"If I had been given more than a few hours to put together somethin' better for her, I wouldn't be bringin' in half the creek bed into the house," Bucky snapped.

Steve liked the way he said creek; he liked the way Bucky said all his words in the drawn-out accent of his, every syllable honeyed and lazy, making him wonder if his accent made his tongue taste sweeter.

He cleared his throat, vanquishing the thought before it could travel any lower than his head, and opened the door for Bucky, resolutely looking _anywhere_ but his ass as he walked into the house.

* * *

Peggy, the wondrous creature that she is, adored the heap of flowers and the cake that Wanda made, and the doll that Ana made for her.

Bucky tried to recall the exact moment he had become a sap as he watched the little girl twirl around and lovingly tuck a flower into everyone's hair.

Steve's face mirrored his own, a tansy drooping from behind his ear. Steve caught his look and smiled, a little too radiant for Bucky to handle, and he offered a smile before turning back to Peggy, brushing the prairie-fire blossom further behind his ear, ignoring the pink of his cheeks.

Wanda didn't miss it though, and the slightly raised eyebrow she directed at Bucky made him deliberate revoking her Sainthood.

Peggy was handed a box from Steve, who made a rather hilarious squawking noise when the two-year-old shook it, and she was prompted to sit on the floor.

"Alright, hold your hands out," he said quietly, reaching into the box.

Peggy's gasp was nothing short of angelic as a fuzzy brown ball of fur was settled into her arms.

"Where on earth did you get a rabbit?" Wanda breathed, leaning over to stare at the ball of fluff.

"Tony remembered it was her birthday, and he had Jarvis drop it off for her yesterday. Told me to take all the credit for giving it to her, though,"

"That man," Wanda shook her head, leaning against the back of her chair, fiery eyebrow arched. "he's an odd one, to say the least. Cannot for the life of him remember Victor's name, but can recite back to me the ages of my children in chronological order, and he hasn't even met all of them."

Her hand rested on the ever-growing swell of her stomach.

Steve's reaction was expected, but no less intimidating. One would think that a man that was healing from extensive injuries would think twice about jumping up and down like an excited kid, but he had effectively shaken the very frame of the house with his jubilation, catching Wanda up into a long, one-armed hug and ended with him tearing up a little bit.

Bucky had called him a pansy, dutifully ignoring that he had _also_ cried when he heard the news.

"What do you think, Peggy?" Steve asked, smiling at the stunned look on the girl's face.

She offered him a delighted grin before sticking her face in the bunny's back, rubbing it all over her face.

Everyone laughed, and Bucky concluded that he didn't mind loud noises when they bounced around so warmly in his chest.

"Ned," she told the rabbit, smushing back it's black dusted ears.

"What?" Steve asked.

"Ned," she said in a finalizing sort of way, like when she had renamed Bucky.

"Alright, the bunny's name is Ned," Steve shrugged.

"You understand that Ned is going to be sleeping in the house from now on, right?" Wanda asked.

"No, he's going to sleep outside with the goats," Steve argued.

"You tell me how that goes, when you try and take that ball of fluff out of her arms tonight," Wanda laughed.

She was right, and they both knew it. Peggy could get away with murder.

* * *

Wanda lingered in the kitchen while her family packed themselves away in the hackney pulled buggy, and Bucky sighed. He really liked her, and he didn't want to have this talk.

His stomach tightened with fear as she finally looked at him.

They were the only people in the house, but the open door and windows offered little privacy. Crickets hummed from outside.

She brushed nonexistent dust off the back of the mismatched dining chairs and leveled his look.

"Do you remember that talk we had two weeks ago?"

"Yes, ma'am." He answered solemnly.

"And you remember when I told you that you wouldn't have to be anything other than a friend or a Bucky again?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Wanda pursed her lips. "I don't know what happened to you down in New Orleans, James, and I am not one to presume, but I can tell you one thing I do know." She spoke quietly but sternly, less of a chastise and more of a reassurance.

"Steve is like none of the men down there, he's better than them."

For a crushing moment, James thought that she was telling him that the sin of New Orleans was not transmittable here in Aurora Run, that the clients of Hyrda were a different breed, and he was barking up the wrong tree.

James nodded, feeling a little numb.

"And like I said, I am not a gossip, nor am I presumptuous, so take this information however you please," she stared him down, eyes sharp and intelligent. 

"He is safe and kind. He is a good man. He won't hurt you, especially not in the ways that you've been maltreated."

Bucky's face burned, caught halfway between embarrassment and an emotion that threatened to clog his throat.

"Alright?" Wanda asked.

"Alright," Bucky nodded.

Definitely a saint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why did this take so long, you may ask? Because I finally graduated high school (big oof), finished another one of my fics (a bigger oof), and started taking CBD to help my trainwreck of a body and hot damn if that stuff doesn't make you want to sleep all day (I cranked this whole chapter out in three hours before I take it so I can remain coherent).  
> Thank you for your patience and ever-present willingness to come back and read whenever I update, y'all are great.
> 
> In case you haven't been getting the message, Stay strong, stay safe, stay smart. BLACK LIVES MATTER!


	19. Chapter nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three words.  
> Narsty.  
> Arguing.  
> HORSEY!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I turned this chapter out in like two and a half hours because * I'm a piece of garbage* and I NEEDED to add this cameo.  
> Future chapters will be plot movers. Yes, there is a plot. hidden somewhere under all the unresolved sexual tension.

It would be easy to leave.

Take his bag and leave.

James had made enough money to get a new start somewhere, maybe keep going up the Mississippi and see what Wisconsin had for him to see, or perhaps the northern territories. 

The thought was startling, and it hit him like a landslide as he brushed down Thor.

"It's been a while since I thought about this," he muttered to himself, pulling Thor's attention to him. He was still unsure around the massive beast; he didn't think that anything should get that big and still get to interact with small animals, not to mention Peggy.

Logically, he knew he could leave. There was no contract with his name holding him back, no intimidations hanging over his head like a guillotine, threatening to drop and disconnect his head from his neck. He could see the world like he had always talked about with the girls, cross to the other side of the Mississippi, see what was beyond the  _ alleged _ mountains out west. He could see it all, but then he would be alone again.

James was really tired of being alone.

Thor slapped him across the face with his straw-colored tail, jerking him back into reality.

"You're a bastard," Bucky deadpanned, spitting hair out of his mouth. Thor snorted, amused.

Peter's warning bark echoed off the walls of the barn, pulling Bucky's attention away from the chestnut stallion and out the barn doors.

A cloud of dust came closer from the road, and something about it made James' stomach uneasy. Steve was in the house with Peggy, body still healing from his debacle a few weeks ago.

Peter didn't lope up the drive to great the horses, he plastered himself to James' thigh, warning growl rumbling in his throat. The midday sun blinded James as the men trotted up around him, kicking up dirt at him, causing him to squint at the four of them. His spine prickled at the scent of pipe tobacco smoke and filth—four men were around him, with their annoyed-looking horses, all of them staring down at Bucky.

"How can I help you, gentlemen?" James asked as politely as he could. He longed for a gun, something that hadn't been a thought in his head for a long time.

"I sure hope you can," the eldest drawled, seemingly placated by James' accent that matched his own. Bucky suddenly didn't want it. Desperately, Bucky wanted a scrub-brush and soap, hoping to wash the lilt from his mouth.

"We looking for a man, real pain in the ass. He shot one a' my sons in the leg, and shot and killed my nephew."

"Real sorry to hear that," Bucky lied, suddenly freezing cold. It didn't take much effort to figure out who was standing in front of him.

"Thank you." the eldest man sighed, looking around the farm, at the growling dog at Bucky's side, the small house, small barn, modest garden, crops outback. James was swiftly and painfully aware of how easily all of it could burn.

"He's big ol' sonofabitch, tall and blonde, "

"Real pretty too," one of the other men called out, face hidden beneath layers of sweat and dirt and general filth.

"Shut up, Moe," the father called out, effectively quieting his son. "He is also one of them goddamned 'abo-lition-ists," the man sounded out the word, and it must have been difficult for him, considering that he was missing a good few of his teeth.

Bucky grunted noncommittally.

"Me and my boys, we're proud slave catchers, you see," the man gestured to his sons that still surrounded Bucky, and he hardly spared them a glance. He could smell them from a distance he was at; he didn't need to know what they looked like.

"And that stupid asswipe was stealing a whole wagon load of property up to the Wisconsin territory, and we were told that the people that help them slaves runaway could be brought to the masters that want to punish them for stealing their property," The man sighed, leaning his massive weight backward in the saddle, the leather groaning under the weight.

James had never pitied a horse more in his life.

"I'm sure you're real cross with this man," James offered, taking a split second to look to the house. He didn't want them knowing that there were other people here, and absolutely  _ not _ the man they were looking for. No one caught on, and they continued not to catch on when Bucky's breath caught in his chest when he saw Steve through the window, a rifle in his hand.

"Yeah, you could say that, or you could say that we want to know where that damned dirty sonofabitch is so we can hang him from a tree like the animal he is," Not an ounce of good-natured humor to be found in his voice anymore.

A decade of playing poker with hardened criminals had trained James for this moment, not allowing him to show a shred of emotion.

"Do you, by chance, have the name of this fella, so I can help you out if I recognize it?" He said levelly, mind screaming.

"No, unfortunately, we never got that off of him, even when we picked through all his belongin's, shoulda kicked his head in." two of the brothers laughed, a hee-hawing sort of noise that had Bucky dying a little on the inside. His heart pounded in his head as he tried to figure out how to get them off the property without tipping them off. 

"Well, I'll be keeping an eye out for you,"

The leader nodded his filthy head at James, just the barest tipping down of his hat, and then he spurred his poor horse in the side, launching him up the driveway, his herd of merry inbreds following after him.

Bucky watched them go, choking on dust and panic, squinting eyes following the horses up until they had long since vanished from sight. He didn't move until Peter detached from his leg, sniffing around where the horses had stood.

James took off at a dead run to the house.

The door creaked open as he stepped in, the small house was dark, every curtain pulled shut to keep the heat of the day out.

Peggy played on the floor with her baby bunny, Ned, oblivious to the commotion outside.

Steve sat in a kitchen chair, rifle resting on the table, good hand covering his face.

"They're gone," Bucky offered, even though he knew that Steve had watched them leave.

Steve didn't move.

Bucky, never one for excessive talking, stood quietly in front of the door after he closed it, banishing the mosquitoes to the outside.

The bunny had nearly doubled in size in the eight days he had lived under Peggy's care, fluffy body happily curled in the two-year-old's lap as her doll used it as a noble steed.

"They found me," Steve said at last, voice raw.

"No, they didn't, they had no idea that you were in the house," Bucky argued.

" _ James, _ " Steve cried out, his massive hand throwing out to gesture at the property. "They came to the  _ farm _ ."

"But they had no idea that you were here,"

"That's not the point," Steve snapped loud enough that Peggy stopped playing.

Bucky stilled at the outburst, spine straightening at the all too familiar noise.

"They could have hurt you," if Bucky didn't know any better than he would think that Steve sounded like he was pleading.

"I can handle my own. You think you the only one that's put a man in the ground before?" James replied, refusing to raise his voice. Peggy was absorbing the conversation unfolding in front of her, eyes wide.

Steve recoiled, even if it was only a hair, taken aback.

"And I wouldn't need no damn rifle to do it either,"

He didn't turn on his heel and storm out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

He simply stepped outside and latched the door behind him, going back to the barn to finish his chores.

* * *

"For fuck sake," James groaned when Peter started growling again an hour later. The nanny goat pinned between his legs offered him an inquisitive look as he put her down.

Her horns had gotten so tangled up in tall grass and burdocks; he had to hold her down to disentangle her from her own stupidity. He got most of it off; it would have to be enough.

A lone man and a horse walked down the drive this time, the man leading horse.

Bucky wondered where he could get his hands on a pistol to keep on his hip. If he had to talk with another slave catcher for the rest of his life, he'd jump into the Mississippi holding onto an anvil.

Bucky noticed two things when the pair got close enough that he could properly evaluate them. One, the horse was very incredibly pregnant, and two, he had never seen a harsher looking man in his life. He was a jagged cut of a human, cruel and strong, glaring blue eyes hidden under the wide shadow of his black stetson.

Bucky felt himself taking a defensive position.

The man stopped at a respectable distance, finally acknowledging Bucky, who probably should have called out to the man sooner, but he was too busy watching the sway of the mare's belly.

"Is Steve here?" The man asked, voice so graveled it sounded painful.

"Who are you?" James deflected.

"Who are you? This is Steve's farm, isn't it?" the man countered, giving him a not very kind once over with his jaw clenched.

James frowned but was cut off.

"Frank?"

Bucky didn't have to turn to know that Steve was standing on the porch. He knew better than to give the opponent the opportunity to strike.

"It's been a while, Steve," the man nodded at him, everything about him screamed of violence.

"I think about eight years if I'm counting correctly," Steve walked down the porch steps, artfully hiding his pain, but Bucky could see the wince in his stride, and he had a feeling that Frank could see it too.

"I would invite you in for coffee, but we both know you're not here for a social call," Steve walked up in front of Frank, a good ten feet away.

"You're right," the conceded. A broad palm came up to rest on the mare's neck, her soft brown ears flickering to the man beside her.

"My horse is going to foal soon, and I don't have a place for her to stay. I remembered Barten sayin' somethin' bout how you have a farm now, trying to live peacefully now," the corner of the harsh set of his lips turned up at the edge, indicating that there was a joke in there somewhere.

"You want me to have your horse?"

"At least until she's worth something to me again," Frank shrugged. "Can't ride her anymore, can't go after nobody when I can't even get the damned girth around her stomach,"

Bucky had to admit; the mare had a rather impressive sized belly. She was an attentive creature, ears flickering between the men during the conversation.

Thor whinnied loudly from the pasture, his heavy-footed gait leading him to the fence, and he nickered again. The mare hardly even spared him a glance.

"Frank, I can't keep another horse, especially not two, the first crop hasn't even been brought in yet, my arm is useless for another month at least," Steve interrupted himself with a sigh.

"Thirty dollars," Frank said plainly, narrowed eyes trained on Steve.

"Excuse me?" Steve blustered.

"You watch her until the foal is weaned, I'll give you thirty dollars."

"You're not taking one of my workhorses for a trade," Steve warned.

"I got my eye on a stallion in town, I'm not taking your horses," Frank exhaled, glancing around the farm.

"HORSEY!" Peggy squealed, venturing out of the house to see what was going on. Her pudgy little body taking the porch steps carefully, copper curls bouncing as she took off at her unstable dead sprint to the horse in question, who was deeply interested in the small creature.

James caught her around the waist before she could launch herself at the liver chestnut mare, hauling her up to his waist.

"Bucky, horsey," she pointed, and James agreed with her.

"Yes, I see," he whispered.

Frank watched the little girl with a look that could only be described as haunted. It was a violating thing to see, the torn-apart look in his eyes as he watched the little girl rest her head on Bucky's shoulder.

James didn't want to know what he had lost to elicit such a decimated reaction.

"I'll watch her," Steve said, a little kinder than before. He must have been privy to the secret.

Steve walked up to the mare, holding out his palm for her to smell.

"What's her name?" he glanced at Frank.

"She doesn't have a name. She's just a horse."

Steve nodded like he had been expecting that answer.

"But she only knows the Italian word for horse, so I guess you could call it a name," Frank ground out the information almost involuntarily. "Cavalla,"

The mare's ears pivoted to Frank, pulling her nose from Steve's hands to face him.

"I'll look after her," Steve reassured as if Frank was a blubbering mess. In all actuality, he was just looking at the saddle-less mare and her gargantuan stomach.

"She's the best damn bounty horse I've ever had, so you better," Frank warned, the threat slicking quick and cold in the late August heat.

With one hand, Frank pulled a wad of money from his coat pocket, holding it out for Steve to take.

"That ought to be enough for her and the baby,"

Steve stared dumbly at the money.

* * *

Bucky and Frank worked together rather well for the seven minutes they were alone together as they turned over Thor's stall, padding the pen up to their knees in straw for the mare.

For the manual labor, the black stetson and the big black overcoat had been shed, and Bucky was thankful to any god that was listening that Frank wasn't one of his clients, in any sense of the word. James wasn't sure he could ever get a read on him to play a winning game of poker, he didn't think he would have won if Zola had sent him to kill Frank, and he was perfectly fine not knowing what it would be like to be on the receiving end of his brutal muscle.

He kept his thoughts to himself, though.

Cavalla sniffed around the stall with a thorough sweep, taking a quick sip from the water pail and snorting at her neighbors, who bleated back. She seemed to approve.

Peggy, absolutely delighted with the addition of another horse, clapped her hands when the mare laid down in the straw, rolling her impressive body. She groaned mightily when she got back to her feet, straw sticking to her black mane and dusting her back, but she looked proud of herself.

Frank cast quick glances to the other people in the room and then to his mare, and Steve got the idea quicker than Bucky and walked out of the barn.

The last thing that Bucky saw before he walked out, was Frank carefully resting his forehead against the mare's, hands holding her face, whispered Italian floating through the barn.

* * *

Thor was only a little put off by having to sleep outside; he was much more interested in the matter that there was a mare in his stall than the fact that  _ he _ wasn't.

Steve walked into the barn without saying a word, standing next to Bucky as they watched the mare eat her hay. A black bandana was securely tied to the post of her stall, and Bucky figured Frank had put it there on purpose.

The light of the moon was the only thing keeping them away from total darkness.

The night that Steve had brought home that pregnant nanny goat, Bucky remembered feeling like it was the kind of night that anything could happen, how free he felt.

Now the two kids were snuggled up next to their mom while they all slept, and Steve looked even more ethereal than before. It was hard not to notice, now that he knew the taste of his lips and how his sighs felt when they washed over him.

The day had been too long for any one person to have to live through.

So they stood there, shoulder pressed in to shoulder as they watched the mare, both of them pretending that it was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My love (nonromantic, yuck) for Frank Castle is something I should see a counselor for (Jon Bernthal version). I was always frustrated by the strict moral code of superheroes like Batman and Daredevil of not killing anyone, and my boi Franky has absolutely no problem with that at all. Is my moral compass broken? Yeah, probably.  
> No one asked for Frank, but I needed to add him. I'd apologize if I was sorry.  
> Am I perpetuating a stereotype that slave catchers are stupid fucking morons controlled by one leader? YES!! Why? Because if you want me to take the time and respect to sculpt a human with thoughts and feelings from the shell of a slavecatcher, then we have a problem. I don't fuck with racists. I mean, I do, usually through taunting and reporting and every ounce of verbal degradation I can muster, but you know what I mean.  
> If it isn't apparent, I will not be using words that I have no business using, we both know that I cannot claim historical accuracy for a cause for the usage of words that are not mine to use.   
> And since modern American police are descendants of slavecatchers, look it up if you don't believe me, it's true, I will take this moment to sing the anthem of our time.  
> NO JUSTICE, NO PEACE  
> FUCK THESE RACIST ASS POLICE  
> BLACK LIVES MATTER.  
> thank you for your time.


	20. Chapter twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feeling particularly dead or lascivious?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just couldn't help myself, sorry it's so short.

_ Steve floated on deliciously warm half-truths and alerted reality. _

_ He was a practical man, was never one to let his imagination hold the reins, emotions always processed and in check. _

_ But he could ignore that for the moment. _

_ Wide, calloused palms gripped his shoulders, blunt fingernails denting his skin, holding, searching, pulling closer, closer. _

_ His body thrummed, tingling and alive as his fingers tangled in messy black hair, woven in his grasp. _

_ Steve could feast on the noises rumbling from the graveled throat he skated his lips over, sun-kissed skin tasting like the August sun and mint. _

_ A lean, hard body arched against his touch, impossibly blue eyes fluttering, a moan as sweet as it was soft curling into the air. _

_ Steve hummed with want, a divine ache winding deep in his stomach and growing into his spine. _

The rooster from screamed its war cry, startling Steve awake with a gasp.

Steve woke up a contradiction. Euphoric yet shockingly sober, confused yet thinking with more clarity than he had in weeks. He was ashamed for certain but strangely unrepentant.

The room was still dark, stretching shadows on the floors from the slated moonbeams coming in through the open window, bringing in the night's hushed sounds.

Peggy had refused to sleep in her own bed that night, making herself at home on Bucky's pillow and was met with no complaints. Even though she was so young, Steve knew she was punishing him for yelling at James, and he knew he deserved it.

The dream was interesting spin, though.

Running a shaking hand over his face, Steve laid back down on his rumpled sheets, wondering how he could ever look James in the eyes again.

In the back of his churning mind, he wondered what vengeful god he had angered to elicit such... thought-provoking dreams.

Steve fell back asleep, figuring that he imagined the smell of rum and cigars in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess Steve isn't too hung up about Bucky's past, huh? I should have seen chapter this coming. Steve certainly didn't. (Insert the evilest laugh you can think of)  
> Is the god I'm mentioning Baron Samedi? Idk, you tell me.
> 
> I saw my first Black Lives Matter poster the other day in a city I was driving through, that's how conservative my town is. When I say it filled me with so much joy and pride that I almost cried, I am not exaggerating.  
> Black lives fucking matter, and that's a hill I will die on.  
> Odd message to finish a chapter that consisted of a WET DREAM but hey, we're all friends here.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a long chapter, but the end note clears that up.  
> It's only like 980 words, so don't get too excited.

Clint found a new wagon, a covered one this time. He didn't seem all too put off with Steve... losing... the last one.

Steve had enough decency to tell Bucky that Clint was coming with a new delivery, and the man stood on the porch with his arms crossed as he watched the bounty hunter pull the wagon flush with the barn doors, the covered top too tall to fit inside.

There hadn't been an argument when Steve told him he was going out again, even though his ribs were hardly healed and his wrist had barely graduated out of the sling, still tightly bound with string and sticks bracketing the limb.

Steve had been expecting a fight, shoulders squared in false confidence, eyes never wavering.

Bucky agreed to stay and watch the farm upon hearing that Clint was coming with this time. Steve was shocked, to say the least.

"You're an adult man, you can make your own decisions," James had conceded, hardly sparing Steve a look over the rim of his coffee cup.

* * *

The night passed him by in a blur of wide eyes and travel-weary faces, Steve's calming voice floating through the cellar that had been carved out from underneath the barn. 

James remembered all those months ago when he had dropped that feed sack on the ground, and it had sounded more hollow than it should have, and it suddenly all clicked together when Steve had lifted a hundred-pound bag of barley off of a trap door in the corner.

There were twelve people in the underground room, including five children. One was a small girl, a few months younger than Peggy, and Steve handed over one of his niece's dresses to the mother, and again Bucky was struck with the memory of Steve stuffing one of Peggy's dresses into his bag before he left on his last... adventure.

Bucky sat on the porch now, watching the night give way to dawn, rifle resting on his lap.

He wasn't fucking around anymore with slave catchers. If anyone was coming down the drive or sneaking up on the barn, they would be met with lead first and questions later.

Clint climbed up on the porch next to him and leaned against the railing, the glowing ember of his cigar the only light other than the moon.

"Whatta you think about all this?" He asked, lackadaisically, drawing in a lungful of smoke. Bucky saw straight through the forced casualness right to the tight line of his shoulders, the way his sharp flint eyes scanned the property, the nervous way he clenched and unclenched his fingers.

"Coulda helped more if he had told me," James shrugged. "But I understand why he didn't. Their lives are more important than my feelings."

Clint nodded. He didn't offer James a draw of his cigar, and James was thankful.

"How long will you be gone this time?" Bucky queried, eyes on the dirt road.

"Short this time, five days, maybe a week."

James nodded.

"Might be longer if we have to shake some people off our tail,"

James nodded again. He didn't know if it would be better or worse, now that he knew what was happening and what to expect. 

* * *

Steve should be getting rest; they would be leaving before the sun rose.

But he stood in the hay shed, trying to gather as much as he could with his hobbled arm and still sore ribs.

Clint watched him but didn't offer any help.

"Did James give you any trouble when you told him you're going out again?"

"No," Steve tucked hay up under his broken arm, trying and failing. 

"He seems like one of the good ones-"

"He kissed me," Steve blurted, unable to keep the words locked behind his teeth any longer.

Clint stared at him.

"He kissed me." Steve sighed, dropping the hay, and ran a tired hand over his equally tired face.

"And you didn't want him too?" Clint raised an eyebrow.

"No, I did."

"Was he a bad kisser? Did he have stinky breath?"

"Clint," Steve said, exasperated.

"What?" Clint shrugged. "I'm just trying to figure out what you're complaining to me about,"

Steve clamped his mouth shut. He didn't know either. He didn't even know he was complaining. He had told Clint everything when they worked together because he would have found it all out in one way or another. Clint had learned about Steve's preferences about three months after they started riding together after they had drunk a little too much bourbon, and Clint asked why Steve hadn't blown all his money on the prostitutes in the taverns they frequented.

Steve was too drunk to realize that saying,  _ "Because none of them are men," _ would be a controversial statement.

Clint had roared with laughter and called for another round of drinks. From then on, Clint liked to play matchmaker for Steve every time he thought someone else had the same inclinations as he did, and though it hardly ever worked out and once or twice got them chased out of a town, Steve eternally appreciated it. The only other person that had known was Sharon, and she loved him regardless.

He had his suspicions that Wanda knew, but he wasn't going to bring it up to find out.

"I'm not complaining, I just," Steve looked to the rafters of the shed. "I just need to tell someone else because it might make it more real."

"When did it happen?"

"When I came back the last time, and he had to patch me up,"

"So," Clint grinned at him wolfishly, "are you gonna try and get hurt again so he'll fawn all over you some more?"

"No," Steve grunted, gracelessly hugging a load of hay to his chest and walked out of the shed.

"Don't lie to me partner, I know you better than you know yourself,"

"Shut up,"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for a long endnote.  
> Could I take the time and plan out a nice chronological timeline that makes sense with the seasons and weather changing because time moves forward(allegedly)?  
> YES!  
> Am I going to do that?  
> NO!!  
> Time is my bitch when I write, I can fill years worth of shit that can happen in this fictional month of August, and you know what, that's what's going to happen. I'm a good midwestern girl, I know how fast things go downhill when the summer is over, and I didn't plan ahead to fit all I wanted into this fictional summer. SO, if the August of the story feels supernaturally long, it's because it is and I'm a little bastard for not planning ahead.
> 
> In the beginning, when I figured out that I wanted Steve working for the underground railroad, I was excited that I could include all the characters I wanted to in a historically correct way, by having them as freed slaves. But, by doing so, I would have to put these wonderful, amazing characters through bondage, even if it was entirely fictional. And as I opened my Grammarly document and stared down the blank page, I almost started crying because I knew how absolutely disgustingly unfair it would be of me to do that to these characters that aren't even my own, I'm just borrowing them for a little bit.  
> I cannot write about slavery guilt-free when the aftershocks of it are still rattling America this very moment.  
> We all know that I'm not being entirely historically accurate, and maybe I'll find a way to include all of the incredible black superheroes, but it cannot be in chains. It already makes me nauseous to think that I had Ororo be a slave already.
> 
> Rest in Peace, Chadwick Boseman, you will be missed.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Unless you wanna see me naked, get out of my room," Bucky whisper warned, pointing sternly at the door.  
> (Don't get your hopes too high though, friends)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty much just pure fluff, and I like the way it turned out.  
> Sorry, not sorry.  
> Again, I wildly and inconsistently switch between 'Stevey' and 'Stevie' and I'm too tired to care.

The week flew by, the first round of apples from the tree in the north were ready, and James spent most of his time that wasn't doing chores hauling baskets of apples into the house.

Peggy, the little monster, would steal a fresh one out of the basket every time he came back in and would scurry back to her tiny play spot behind the stairs with her bunny, both of them munching happily.

Sharon's recipe for apple sauce was so simple that Bucky felt confident enough to try it. He had found her little tin of recipes on a shelf when he was pretending to look for Peggy when they were playing, and he had spent the entirety of the little girl's nap leafing through the notes at all the recipes.

He loved her handwriting, immaculate and ornate cursive, all the recipes stained and a little battered in a way that made Bucky's chest feel funny the more held onto the paper. He suddenly felt a little voyeuristic, looking at and reading something that Sharon obviously loved, and he set the pale blue tin back on the shelf.

Her recipe said to leave the peelings on to make the sauce pink but to make sure to strain them out later, so Bucky rolled up his sleeves and got to work.

Peggy had absolutely no interest in cooking and spent the time playing with the black and white stuffed dog that Clint brought for her late birthday. She had accepted it from him tentatively, eyeing him warily as she took it from his grasp, managing a tiny 'thank you' before scurrying away.

This time around, Bucky made sure that every single moment of his day was full of something and that he never stopped moving long enough to think about what could be going wrong with Clint and Steve and all the innocent people they were bringing to freedom.

So he cut and chopped apples, milked the cow and the goats, and checked on Frank's still very pregnant and increasingly bitchy mare that desperately wanted to start a fight with Clint's stallion; he walked the fields with Peggy on his shoulders and took freezing cold baths in the creek and never for a second let himself think.

And by nightfall, he was so exhausted that he fell asleep the second his head hit the pillow.

* * *

A hot wet tongue dragged across James' face, waking him.

"How the fuck did you get in here?" he grumbled at Peter, who was straddling him.

The massive dog looked down at him dopily with his big brown eyes, resting his chin on Bucky's chest.

"G'off," he said groggily, pushing the beast off his lap, and Peter happily rolled over, overjoyed at being temporarily allowed to lay in a bed.

The sun was peeking over the horizon, the sky so overcast it was just a smear of orange.

"Unless you wanna see me naked, get out of my room," Bucky whisper warned, pointing sternly at the door.

Peter thudded off the bed and nosed his way out, and headed straight to Peggy's room.

Bucky suppressed his groan of frustration but let the dog go; he could keep her entertained for a few minutes while he got dressed.

The stairs groaned under his feet as he walked down them, heading straight to the washroom. This had always been his favorite part of the day, even at Hydra. Scrubbing his face and hair in the washbin, shaving off the nightly shadow, scouring his body with a washcloth and clove-scented soap, not caring that the water was cold.

Peggy, on the other hand, _hated_ bathtime.

This was proven yet again that afternoon, after the little girl had seen Peter roll around in the mud under the trees, and decided to do so herself. James had yelled across the yard that she wouldn't dare, but she sat her bloomer clad butt down in the mud and laid back, doing a snow- _mud_ \- angel.

Bucky growled so loudly that the goat he was milking had startled, kicking him in the shin.

Peggy got to have her fun with Peter in the mud while her temporary guardian drew her a bath on the porch.

Peter had the good sense to feel threatened and got out of the mud when James poured the water in the big basin, but Peggy played on, ignoring his baleful looks.

At least she didn't bring any toys with her.

An audience of Peter, Ned the bunny, an intrigued Loki, and all the barnyard animals got to witness the absolute hilarity of a mud streaked toddler giving a grown man a run for his money across the yard, laughing maniacally every time she slipped out of his grasp.

* * *

"Bubbles," Peggy said dreamily, blowing suds off her hand.

James agreed and rinsed the soap from her copper curls, taking care to get all the mud from behind her ears.

You never know when Wanda would pop in for a visit, and she wouldn't take all too kindly to muddy ears.

Peter blinked lovingly at his little girl as he rested his head on the edge of her basin and was dutifully knighted with her sudsy hand, not caring that she tasted like soap when he licked her arm.

" _Gah_ , stop lickin' her, she's gettin' clean," James admonished, flicking water at him.

Peter thumped his tail against the porch floor.

* * *

They had made incredibly good time, gone to the next safe house and back in less than four days, and Steve was in a particularly good mood.

Clint ignored his happiness in favor of a nap and leaned himself back on the bench seat, hat tipped over his eyes.

Peter, never one to miss an opportunity to demonstrate his love for Steve, took a flying leap into his arms, writhing and kissing him all over as Thor pulled them down the drive.s

"Peter," Steve sighed, pushing his invasive tongue away. Peter scrambled around the bench seat, stepping directly onto Clint's crotch, and he sat up with a squawk, hat askew.

"STEVEY!" a tiny voice squealed, and a grin stretched over Steve's face as he found the source.

James hardly had enough time to wrap a towel around Peggy before she frantically climbed out of the tub and clambered down the steps, hair spiked up and soaking wet.

Clint took the reins as Steve jumped down from the wagon, meeting the little girl halfway and scooped her up into his good arm, her wet baby arms wrapping around his head.

"HOME, HOME!" she chanted, patting his beard.

Steve couldn't keep the smile off his face as he glanced up at the house. James watched them from the porch with his hands on his hips, sleeves pushed up his forearms, the front of his white shirt plastered to his body with splashed bathwater.

Steve felt the sudden need to clear his throat and had to tear his eyes away from James and back to the girl in his arms that was pointing to a mud hole under the pines and was telling him an elaborate story in gibberish.

"Did you take a dip in the mud?" Steve questioned, poking her belly through her towel and was gifted an exulted _'YES!'_

"And then you had to take a bath?"

A less exuberant agreement this time.

Unable to hide his grin, Steve flicked his eyes back up to Bucky on the porch. "Mean old Bucky never lets you have any fun," he teased.

James scoffed.

Giggling conspiratorially, Peggy cast him a sly look, hiding her face when he raised an eyebrow at her.

"Both of you are trouble," Bucky shook his head.

* * *

"How was she?" Steve asked, hanging his hat on the wall and throwing his jacket on the peg by the door. 

"Good, as always, except for her little adventure out into the mud this mornin',"

The corners of Steve's mouth turned up a little, and he no longer felt the urge to apologize to James about taking care of the lesser desired aspects of Peggy, knowing that he truly didn't mind. For one blissfully distracted second, Steve pictured Bucky in the sudsy water.

He shook his head to clear the thought.

"She's too much like her ma,"

"I was gonna say she's too much like you," Bucky mumbled, leaning against the wall, eyes on the girl playing in the yard. Clint was stretched out under the boughs of the plum tree in the center of the grass, pretending to be asleep but also keeping an eye on the little girl. Steve had invited him into the house for a drink and to cool off, but he had brushed him off, whispering something that Bucky didn't catch that caused Steve to take a half-hearted swing at him. He had laughed at the man and took his reclined position under the midday sun.

"What can I say? We're all hellions,"

Silence stretched between them for a few minutes, and James let himself glance over Steve's body. He didn't look any worse for wear from the journey, no new bruises to brighten his skin or tented bone under the extensive muscle covering his frame. 

"You're still in one piece, so no patty rollers this time?" James arched an eyebrow, allowing himself to take a step closer to Steve, you know, for research purposes.

Steve had a clever quip ready and waiting, his tongue always ready to sass James, but he was stunned into stillness when he glanced at the man.

He didn't look any different than he did any other time Steve looked at him, no part of him had changed in the four days they were apart, but it wasn't change that caught Steve's eye. The midday sun loved James' face, lighting up the sharp cut of his jaw and the hollow of his throat, the blue of his eyes crystalline and clear, the messy way his hair was falling from its binding. The fold of his broad arms wasn't poetic, the still wet fabric of his shirt clinging to his abdomen didn't sing him hymns from god, the long-fingered wide hand that brushed over his clean-shaven face wasn't something that should have drawn Steve's attention, but he couldn't look away.

Steve drew in a shaky breath, unsteady all of a sudden.

"No patty rollers this time, everything went fairly smooth, we got everyone out safely,"

 _God,_ he was standing closer now, and Steve felt like someone lit his skin on fire. James tilted his head back, just a fractional movement to better make eye contact and consequently bared his throat.

Steve felt unbearably itchy.

"It's good of you to do this,"

"Do what?" Steve asked, unable to look away from the way Bucky's lips moved when he spoke.

"Help people get free," 

"Oh, right, that,"

Steve wondered if he was going just a little crazy. James was standing far enough away that he shouldn't be having the utter internal meltdown that was happening; this was not something that should happen when you're around your friend.

But he hardly doubted that most friends had kissed each other before and had incredibly... _descriptive_ dreams about the other.

Maybe James said something else, but it didn't breach passed the roaring in Steve's ears as he stepped into James' space, so close he felt his breath hitch against his chest.

"I'm glad you didn't get hurt," James said, only the shiver of his voice giving him away. Steve felt his cheeks getting a bit warm at the thought of James being genuinely glad that he was alright.

"Careful, Buck, or it might sound as though you like me," Steve breathed, his good hand brushing against James' fingers, not quite intertwining, but pressing together like the other was an anchor in the open sea.

At least, that's what Steve felt like, and from the wild glint in James' clear blue eyes, he figured he wasn't alone.

"Those are fightin' words comin' from someone blushin' like a little girl," James warned.

Steve crashed up against him like the swelling tide, Bucky's back connecting with the wall, and gasped at the force. He smelled like soap suds and tasted like the coffee that he drank by the gallon, and Steve knew his lips were probably chapped to high hell from the days on the road and that his beard hadn't been trimmed in a while, but god above, he couldn't think of a single reason to pull away.

Bucky didn't melt under his hold, the cage of Steve's arms did little to tame him, and he battled against him in a fury of teeth and tongue, strong fingers threading into his hair, bared teeth biting down on Steve's lower lip.

A growl rumbled through Steve, thrumming through James like thunder, bright blue eyes met bright blue eyes, two rainstorms clashing at the tempest.

"Careful Stevie," Bucky hummed, lips sliding across Steve's as he spoke, "or I might think that you like me," 

How he managed the aloof air of nonchalance as Steve was so effectively pressing him against the wall of the house, arms bracketing his head, was lost to Steve, but he made up for it in the best way he could think.

* * *

Steve kissed as though he was dying, and it was his last vicious attempt at survival; each movement of his lips was born of a man that lived without moderation, his massive palm gently cradling Bucky's face, thumb tracing over the smooth skin of his shaven cheek.

James had waited for the fear to shoot through him for half a second when Steve had pushed him to the wall, a half a second of waiting for the panic and self-preservation to flood in, but his body was on fire for a different reason.

No dread prickled up his spine; in fact, if he wasn't mistaken, everything was in the process of flowing _down._

He'd never gotten to do this before, the kissing and the teasing and the gentle touches. He knew how to kiss and touch as a pleaser, but never as the one being pleased.

The care and _reverence_ that Steve took as he dotted James' jaw with searing kisses, fingers holding his head into place, had his heart thumping wildly in his chest, and he wondered if Steve could feel it.

The best part of it all was that Bucky knew he could just walk away if he wanted. The hand on his face would fall away with no resistance, the wall of muscle pressing him into the boards would lift with a single word, and he'd be free.

The thought of it thrilled him as much as the teeth grazing the cut of his jaw, and the heat of his breath fanning across his throat, eliciting goosebumps, and he used his new position of _having an option_ to pull Steve's face back to him via the leverage of his dark blond hair wrapped in his fingers, and he kissed him, starved from all the kindness he was denied.

Steve was nothing if not kind.

 _"STEVIE, BUCKY, HUNGRY!"_ A tiny voice called out from the yard, floating in from the half-open door.

Steve pulled away and looked around hurriedly, scanning for the small child. Upon realizing that she was still outside and in his line of sight, he relaxed. 

"I promise I fed her," Bucky murmured, all of the organs in his body twisting and somersaulting as Steve continued to hover over him.

Steve huffed out a laugh, and Bucky felt it reverberate through his body, causing his pulse to flutter again.

Something warm danced in Steve's eyes as he looked at Bucky, it crinkled his eyes and turned up his eyebrows, and as James opened his mouth to question him, Steve kissed him one more time. It was soft and sweet and chaste, and Bucky wanted to apologize to Polly for laughing at her when she said that some kisses made your toes curl in your boots, and all your thoughts fly away.

"STEVIE, BUCKY, _HUNGRY_!" Clint called out from the yard, voice high in his imitation of Peggy, and she giggled and parroted him, just as shrill and obnoxious.

* * *

That night, Bucky slept alone in his bed, eyes watching the moon throw shadows across the ceiling.

His mind raced miles ahead of him, kicking up so much dust he choked on it.

He played the look that Steve gave him over and over in his head, fingers brushing his lips as he remembered. 

He couldn't keep the smile away even if he wanted to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said that I wouldn't be putting strong undertones of homophobia in this work? Well, I wasn't lying. Enjoy these happy boys.  
> I finished the climax of the book I've been working on for half a decade and a third of my life and I'm DEEPLY dissatisfied with the way it turned out but I have this story as an outlet until I figure that other shit out. So, as of right now, this story has my creativity's full and undivided attention. Scary, isn't it?  
> Has anyone else heard My Chemical Romance for the first time in years and got TRIGGERED!!?? I'm listening to it right now and I feel like I'm 13 again, it's terrifying.
> 
> BLACK LIVES MATTER! Stay safe and stay strong.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lazy heat of the sun pressed them into the ground, the smell of cut oat stalks floating around them like the nonexistent breeze and the impossibly gentle caress of Steve, all horrible contenders for an alert mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This too, is entirely fluff because the world is horrible and if this brings you a sliver of joy to read, then my work here is done.  
> Also it has too many dick jokes in it.   
> Reminder, I not only have I made the month of August in this story my bitch, but I have also warped the human ability to heal to my liking. I *INTIMATELY* know how long it takes to heal from broken bones and the pain thereof, so I'm not speeding the healing time of Steve's arm out of ignorance, I'm doing it because we're moving on, people. We get it, he got hurt, now we're on the next fun thing to happen.

Bucky wondered if now would be a good time to tell Steve that he didn't care for farm work.

The thought crossed his mind as the scythe ripped open his palms through his gloves, or when oat dust and sweat made a gritty paste that lined every crevice of his body, or when a field mouse scurried up his arm and over his shoulder for the eighth time.

The last of the August heat reminded them that it truly didn't give a shit about either of them, forcing the oppressive sun to bake them through their straw hats and cotton shirts as they reaped the oats. It went faster with another person, trading off every few hours, one cutting down the oats with the scythe while the other binds the bales, and on and on and on. 

Since the two of them were spending the day in the field, Wanda had come to the house with her growing belly and whirlwind presence, roping her children into making all the raspberry jam they could cram into the cellar.

Peggy had danced around the house, clapping her hands at the news.

When the noon heat had been at its highest, Ana had come out to the fields with a pitcher of sweet peach tea, cheeks bright red as she pointedly looked everywhere except at the exceptionally sweaty Bucky.

Now, Bucky marveled at the burst blisters on his hands and how the blood lined the creases in his palms.

"I should've warned you that I wasn't cut out for farm work," he mused, and Steve grunted somewhere off to his right.

The sun was on its descent in the sky and was currently partially blocked by the old hickory tree, and the two of them were sprawled out on the ground, too tired even to shield their eyes.

"My Pa could do this all day. He never needed to sit down or mend his hands or stretch out his back; he just did it sun up to sun down," Steve said monotonously, not using the effort to put an emphasis in his words.

"Is there a chance your Pa was actually a workhorse?"

Steve huffed out a laugh.

"It would explain the appetite, and the shoulders," Bucky continued, "you and Thor look pretty similar, you might be brothers,"

"Stop comparing me to animals, or I might have to act like one," Steve warned without an edge of real danger.

"This means that you haven't been tryin' to act like one?" Bucky asked, squawking when a hand thudded down on his chest, halfheartedly smacking him.

"Shhhh, it was so much nicer out here before you started talking," Steve groaned, not moving his hand off James' chest, letting his palm rest on his sternum. 

"You're impossible," Bucky responded, not moving his hand away either. The day was hot, and the palm against him was hotter yet, but it made his insides feel shivery.

_ Stupid, _ Natasha warned while Polly squealed  _ ROMANTIC!! _

Clever fingers brushed absently over his chest, tracing little patterns on Bucky almost distractedly as if it were casual and unintentional and not at  _ all  _ causing his heart to hiccup.

No one had so thoroughly and categorically made his pulse sing with excitement with something so simple as a single finger touching him, and frankly, it was irresponsible for him to feel that way.

Steve didn't mention the thundering heartbeat galloping under his too-big palm; the only sound in the field was the killdeer scolding them.

The lazy heat of the sun pressed them into the ground, the smell of cut oat stalks floating around them like the nonexistent breeze and the impossibly gentle caress of Steve, all horrible contenders for an alert mind.

James couldn't help the sliver of shock that seized his body as he realized how far he had come. Four months ago, he could hardly turn his back to Steve, couldn't imagine holding eye contact for longer than ten seconds, and the steadfast worry that he would be found out.

Now, he was stretched out on the hard ground with his eyes closed like a fat cat, practically purring while that same person petted him, looking forward to going back to the house and being greeted by a sticky handed toddler.

"Steve," he asked before he could stop himself. 

"Hmm?"

"It doesn't bother you, not knowing what I did in New Orleans?"

"I-" Steve faltered, "It can't be anything worse than I've done,"

"And if you're wrong?" He wasn't sure why he was self-sabotaging.

"Then there's a first time for everything," Steve snarked.

With a grunt, Bucky rolled over, fixing Steve under his stare.

"I'm serious; you don't care?"

"Are you gonna tell me all the details so I can play Saint Peter?" Steve raised an eyebrow.

James bit his lip, wondering if he could spill the proverbial beans.

Steve watched the motion of his mouth with half-lidded eyes, all big and sweaty, laying on the ground with one knee bent and straw hat covering most of his face.

"Well, until then, I think I can like you just fine," he murmured, closing his eyes, the hand that had fallen off James' chest rested between his propped up arms, palm up, quietly waiting.

Something warm and persistent pressed against' James' ribcage, inflating and excited.

* * *

The sky was completely cloudless, so when a shadow eclipsed the sun, Steve squinted up through one eye.

James hovered over him, hands bracketing his head, the hang of his partially unbuttoned shirt gave Steve a clear view all the way down his abdomen to his beltline.

There were perfect grounds on which to tease Steve; his words were the breeding ground of endless jokes and jeers,  _ 'oh, you like me, do you?' 'are you sweet on me?' 'are you a little school girl or somethin'?' _

Instead, Steve stared up into liquid blue eyes that rivaled the sky, a curtain of shoulder-length black hair loose from its confines. They were both sunburnt and angry red, trails of evaporated sweat streaking skin, oat dust coating every goddamn square inch of their bodies.

Steve's hands that had spent a decade of doing ungentle things carefully reached up, callused fingers sliding against smooth skin, threading into damp hair.

Twice before he had pushed his fingers through someone else's hair, it had been short and coarse, a rough tangle of shame and discretion.

And now, Steve could take his time, not an ounce of shame in his body.

Hot chapped lips pulled him from his thought process, pressing into his wrist.

Steve almost swallowed his tongue.

Bucky had pure (pure enough) intentions with the kiss. Could blame it on it being a split second impulsive decision, but that would belittle everything he was working towards. He couldn't put it all on gut feelings and passion because he wanted it when his head was clear too.

And, not to mention, Steve's pupils were blown out and dilated, eyes so wide they could swallow the sun, a sharp gasp sucked was the only sound in the breezeless air. And if that's not an emphatic  _ yes _ , then Bucky didn't know what to say.

Steve tasted like sweet peach tea and sweat, trimmed beard scratching James' face in a way he could only describe as aggravating. Those narrow hips fit like a goddamn dream between Bucky's thighs; it didn't matter that the holster of Steve's gun was digging into his leg. It didn't matter that the starving heat of the sun was cooking them, or that there was work to be done or that behind Steve's ears were unbearably ticklish and he flailed like Peggy when Bucky found the spot, rumbling with laughter.

_ God, _ James could have stayed out here all day, in this impenetrable bubble, just like this.

Having spent too much time under the claustrophobic weight of someone else, Bucky found he quite liked pinning the virtual giant to the grass and reveling in the feeling of Steve matching him in every movement and never reaching farther.

Bucky wanted to think that Steve was keeping his hands above his bellybutton because he knew to keep it slow with James, that he had suffered in New Orleans and was tamping himself down for that sole reason, but as he carefully dotted kisses up James' scarred arm, James was sucker-punched with the heart fluttering realization that it's just who Steve is.

Never one to take more, even when it's what he wants, and Bucky had a growing idea of how much the other man wanted. 

Wanda had been right when she said he was  _ good _ , and James growled into Steve's mouth with the force of understanding the statement, drinking in the noise of surprise it elicited.

If it weren't for the very real danger of getting caught in the field by an actual  _ child _ sent to check up on them, Bucky would have put his lips to better use to get even prettier noises out of Steve.

* * *

Dusk fell and took the heat of the day with it and dumped two very exhausted men on the porch steps.

Wanda clicked her tongue disapprovingly at them while she and Ana bandaged their hands, Ana damn near dissolving into the floor when Bucky flashed her a grin and thanked her for wrapping up his bloodied palms. He realized that he hadn't buttoned up the throat of his shirt back up until  _ later _ . 

He hadn't been covered in so much blood, sweat, and dust in a long time, and especially for not such a good reason.

"You all finished up then with the oats?" Wanda queried, carefully winding ripped up cotton around Steve's hands.

"Yes, now we just gotta load 'em up and process 'em," he sighed, craning his head back till it touched the back of the chair, "but that is work for tomorrow. I don't think I could move if the house started on fire,"

"Bucky darling," Wanda glanced to him, "There's a fresh basin of water in the washroom for you, I can't have you tracking oat dust all over the house," she raised a fiery eyebrow at him, and he smiled, the endearment curling around his neck like a medal of honor.

Bucky got ambushed by three small children as he stepped into the house. A bunny was thrust into his hands, Peggy wrapped her arms around his leg for him to drag her through the house, Gus asking him a thousand questions about playing cards, Ellie wondering, (at the same time her brother was talking) what it was like to live in New Orleans.

From the corner of his eye and the onslaught of talking, he saw Wanda squint at Steve and then grab his jaw, turning his head so she could better see his neck. 

It was small, hardly visible behind his ear, a hard marked kiss that Bucky had left in a streak of contemptuous possessiveness, earning easily the best sound he had ever heard from Steve.

Wanda poked the mark, and Steve squawked, his hand clapping over the mark as he stared with an open mouth at the woman in front of him.

Before Bucky's blood could turn to ice at the notion of Wanda realizing who the mark was from, she tipped her head back and started laughing. Big, slightly obnoxious belly laughs echoed across the yard, affectively turning both Bucky and Steve's faces pink as she said,  _ "like lovesick puppies!" _

Bucky quietly disentangled himself from the barrage of children and slinked away to the washroom, scouring his upper body in the mirror for similar marks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was heavily influenced by Harry Styles' 'Fine Line' album, which is an entire range of emotion in itself.  
> I'm having a hard time deciding who should have the 'upper hand' in these chapters, if you know what I mean. Thoughts? Feelings? Should I just go with the flow? What's the flow? 
> 
> I'm using this section to ask for ideas for new fics (this one has to end eventually) and I'm curious of what should I dabble in next?  
> I'm pretty much open to any fandom, any prompt, any pairing, any rating. I'm serious, hit me up. I can only venture so far out of my comfort zone though, so maybe not a whole list of BDSM prompts and tags that end in 'philia' because ~yikes~ I think I would blush myself to death writing them.  
> I have sort of a half baked idea in my mind but ya girl is (sang in Jean-Ralphio's voice) INDECISIVE AS HELL!
> 
> As always, my friends, BLACK LIVES MATTER, keep protesting and donating and spreading the message.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Baby horse, baby horse," Peggy sang, dancing haphazardously on the straw lined barn aisle, curly hair bouncing along with her uncoordinated steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh? More fluff? Yes. I am a creature of a single talent.  
> I think by the end of this chapter you all should have figured out that I love horses so fucking much it hurts.  
> This is also intentionally in short bursts. Can I say it's aesthetic? Yes, I can. Is the real reason that I have some degree of untreated ADHD? Also, yes.

* **This[song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yHmkn-S3YUs) has no bearing in the fic, I just listened to it a dozen times while writing this chapter and I love it***

* * *

"Baby horse, baby horse," Peggy sang, dancing haphazardously on the straw lined barn aisle, curly hair bouncing along with her uncoordinated steps.

"Not yet," Steve said back, eyeing the mare.

She pinned her ears back at him, peevishly swishing her tail in his direction.

She was definitely the sort of creature that Frank Castle would fall in love with, a temper like an inferno and the ability to flick her tail with near-fatal accuracy.

Ignoring him entirely, Peggy continued her song, throwing straw in the air.

* * *

"Quit worrying, she'll do fine," Steve chastised from the barn door, eyeing Bucky.

"Has she ever had a foal before?" He glanced at Steve, bleeding thumb viciously caught between his teeth.

"No,"

Bucky made a disapproving sound in the back of his throat, turning back to the munching mare.

"They've been doing this by themselves for a long time 'fore we were around to help, my Pa never needed to help our mare foal, and she had half a dozen of 'em before she turned twenty."

None of this was reassuring.

Steve took a step further into the barn, tilting his head at the mare.

"She's done nothing but bite and kick at you since she got at you; why do you care so much?"

James sighed, pulling his thumb out of his teeth just long enough to speak. "You didn't see the look on Frank's face when he was sayin' goodbye to her. It was like she was the only thing left that he had, and he was forcin' himself to walk away from her,"

Sucking in his lips, Steve nodded, boot scuffing at the hay.

"She is all he has left now, really. His family's gone, been gone for about a decade now. I swear she's the only thing keeping him alive,"

If it wasn't for the unspoken rule of not asking about pasts, Bucky might have inquired about the fates of the Castle family, but the haunted look in Frank's eye was enough to quell the swelling curiosity.

"Well, you know why I'm stayin' out here then," Bucky stayed put, worrying his thumbnail and resolutely not looking at Steve. When he buckled under the pressure of stealing a glance, all he could think of was the scorching afternoon and how much Steve tasted like peach tea and how he hasn't gotten to kiss him since.

* * *

Peggy was allowed to tell each farm animal goodnight, only if she touches nothing and let Steve carry her. She was upset that the other horses weren't in the barn to keep all unnecessary stress away from Cavalla, but kissed Bucky's cheeks twice to make up for it.

"Love you,' she said in her sweet, tiny voice that filled Bucky's heart up to bursting.

Since her birthday, her vocabulary had taken off like a bird, picking up new words left and right, and though Steve told her that every night, she had latched onto the sentence when Wanda had peppered her in kisses and 'I love yous.' The little girl had also gleefully laughed and clapped when Wanda had grabbed Steve's face and repeated the same offense with a rapacious grin. 

Her expectant face was still facing Bucky while his mouth dropped open dumbly.

"I love you too, doll," he scrambled for the syllables, little girl uncaring as she turned away to watch the mare.

James' throat _burned,_ a lump blocking his airways as he struggled back tears.

Steve's smile was something that was impossible to miss, a blinding ray of sunshine that damn near lit up the night sky.

It burned away something inside of James, something dark like an oil slick and twice as cruel.

* * *

Cool night air filtered through the open barn doors, an owl in the west hooted, a tree frog made it's creaking noise, and James never once looked away from the mare in front of him.

After Peggy was put to bed, Steve entered the barn, and the farm was buttoned-down and banishing a sulking Peter to the porch.

Having half a mind to ask, Bucky wondered why Steve was so warm all the time as if the sun lived under his skin.

The chill of the night vanished in the face of the hot press of Steve against his side, too close to be platonic, too casual to be romantic.

They didn't steal kisses in the straw like lovestruck teenagers giddy at the touch of another; they were too tired for that. Side by side in the dusty straw, hips digging into each other, shoulders butted up close, jaded and weary and basking in the safety of the other.

* * *

The foal was born in the dead of night, a chestnut filly that was standing before it was hour old.

She was just as fiery as her mother, a spark in her eye that took an unknown weight from James' shoulders, reassuring that she was going to be just fine.

He couldn't remember when he became such a sap, but he was sure he wouldn't trade it back for whatever he was before.

On rickety, unstable legs, the foal wobbled to her mother, so fresh and new and terrifyingly pure.

Steve's hand squeezed Bucky's, less romantic and more desperate, a rough slide of callused palm on callused palm, less holding, and more gripping. 

Bucky knew it was the only thing keeping him from floating away, an earthly tether of a too-tight clasp. 

And he hoped to any god that was listening that the ballooning feeling in his chest wouldn't tear him in two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, I found the notes that started this fic that I haven't touched since the beginning of April, and when the story is all done (so there'll be no spoilers) I am going to copy and paste verbatim what the notes say because they are so fucking funny.  
> If you ever do anything I ask, please watch "The Old Guard" on Netflix. I haven't been so emotionally fulfilled by a movie in a long time, and I think I'm giving the credit to the female director. Hot damn am I tired of the male lense. Joe and Nicky are everything I've ever wanted to write in my entire existence, their chemistry and love is simply divine. 
> 
> BLACK LIVES MATTER! And don't forget to vote!!!  
> RIP RBG, Thank you for fighting the bringers of hell for as long as you could, you deserve your rest.


	25. Question

A question for you, my beautiful audience.

I'm looking for a way for Bucky to get hurt. 

Now now, before you yell at me, it's going to be nothing special, nothing permanent, something that will have Peggy, and more importantly Steve, fawning over him for like, an afternoon.

I have been thinking about how to do it since I started the first draft in April, and for the life of me, I can't figure out what to do. 

Now, remember, it's gotta be something that makes Steve feel guilty. 

Literally any suggestion, please I'm desperate.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Run boy run  
> This world is not made for you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big angst and fear warning right off the bat, it's not entirely integral to the story so if you're worried about it, it won't be too bad too miss.

*[ **Ambiance**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UrdaRrArd_c&list=TLPQMjAwOTIwMjBfrFL_xvFuEQ&index=2)*

* * *

Shoes splashed through muddy New Orleans puddles, sloshing up on to pant legs.

James didn't even notice as he stumbled through the allies, left arm cradled to his chest. Every step sent a new wave of scalding pain through his arm, every breath that was ragged with pain expanded his broken ribs, every inch of his skin covered in blackening bruises.

The doctor had wanted to keep him, elevate his arm, and keep the infection away, keep an eye on ribs, make sure the blood in his eye didn't go septic.

James had pushed bloodied money into his hand and rushed out of the hospital.

The pain pulled at his consciousness, ebbing and flowing in rolling waves of red pain, throwing him off balance as he walked and crashed him into a brick wall. He only allowed himself five seconds to regroup himself, to gather every scattered piece.

The cut on his arm was bleeding through the bandages; he could feel it soaking the cotton.

The broken ends of his ribs crunched and ground together, creaking and groaning with every breath.

His right eye was blurry with blood, casting the mucky streets in a hazy red.

The bootprint shaped bruise on his hip pinched and stung with every throb of his overexerted heart.

The pain in his arm turned his mind to mush, tricking him into thinking that he was still burning, trying to scramble away from the pain as if it would help. The scent of his own burning flesh, acrid and charred, clung to the inside of his nose and made residence.

His five seconds were up, and he was back on the street, willing his feet to not catch on loose cobblestones. If he fell, he wouldn't be getting back up.

The putrid smell of the river assaulted him, pulling his head up from his hunched shoulders, yanking his attention to the west.

"FOUR DOLLARS FOR A TICKET UP THE MISSISSIPPI ON THE WONDERFUL  _ MARYBELLE _ , JUST FOUR DOLLARS FOR ADULTS, TWO FOR THE LITTLE 'UNS," a man shouted over the din of the pedestrians, hardly a soul giving him a second of their attention.

Up the Mississippi. North. Away from New Orleans, away from Zola.

There was nothing left here for him. He couldn't get out any more girls, and helping them leave was hard enough when he wasn't a walking corpse.

Now, if someone threw a punch, he'd be going down like a brick house. The grog of pain flooding his mind was discombobulating; he felt like there was cotton lining his brain, dulling his awareness down to that of a scarecrow dummy.

James stared at the  _ Marybelle, _ a decent-sized charter that could take him away.

There were three outcomes for him, and he understood that. A chilling mist coming off the river and cooling his fevered body. He was good at this part of planning, the problem solving, cold, calculated thinking. It's what made him so special to Zola, the ability to push emotion to a dark corner and lock the chest down tight.

The first outcome was Zola's men find him. If they found him again, they would do more than beat him into the ground and throw a bottle bomb. If they found him, no one would ever find his body.

The second outcome was that James would walk into the open embrace of the opium dens. Many a night he had spent prowling the silken rooms, breathing in the cloying scent as he tracked someone Zola had pointed at, ignoring everything that wasn't the job. But he remembered the looks on the patron's faces as he stepped over their bodies, drowsy and paralyzed, not feeling or seeing a thing, glazed over eyes witnessing a murder and not even blinking.

He wanted that, somewhere in the back of his mind, to not feel anything, to forget the twisting pain in his arm, the threat of Zola, the brokenness of his actions and justifications of them.

At what point is self-preservation is no longer an excuse?  _ I can save myself by hurting them, killing them, laying down for them, getting on my knees for them _ , when is no longer an excuse?

The third option was the  _ Marybelle, _ bound northward and away.

Unsteadily but not uncertainly, James pitched himself forward to the boat, pulling four dollars from his pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we all know what happens after he gets on that boat, and more importantly, what happens after he GETS OFF! You can choose to see the inappropriate joke in that or not.  
> I can't remember if I named the boat he rode up the river or not, so let's pretend it's called the Marybelle.  
> YES! The song was the entire inspiration for the chapter.  
> BLACK LIVES MATTER  
> VOTE VOTE VOTE


	27. 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kiss caught him off guard, chapped lips pressed against the corner of his mouth for a startling second before Steve was standing up.  
> "You're full of shit, Barnes,"  
> James threw his head back and laughed, even when his ribs creaked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *SPOILER WARNING >> NSFW CONTENT ABOUT A THIRD OF THE WAY IN. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED**  
> Also, I will write however many cliches as I want, thank you. This is as much for me as it is for you, and I want cheesy scenes that don't exist in the real world. Leave me and my unrealistic standards alone.

Cavalla had lost none of her... charm... with the birth of the foal, her tail flicking James in the face as he walked behind her. He thought he had given her enough clearance and then some while he pushed the wheelbarrow, but his stinging face was evidence against the claim.

The stall she and the filly had been staying in was easy enough to clean, the mare tethered to the outside of the pen as he had shoveled, foal curiously flicking its ears at James, captivated by his movements.

Except for the blazed white patch on her chest, she was the spitting image of her mother, though she lacked the travel-weary orneriness. Bucky figured that was a learned behavior.

A fresh bed of sweet-smelling straw crowded James to his knees, and though it made him itch, he added the final layer before stepping out of the stall, not bothering to dust off the stray strands clinging to his clothes.

"Ready?" he asked cautiously, knowing better than to rush the mare. She eyed him with a snort, casually chewing her mouth of hay.

Biting back the nervous hum that wanted to vibrate his whole body, fingers brushing her smooth coat as he stepped closer, untying the rope wrapped around the post.

_ "PETER, NO!"  _

James' head whipped around at the booming voice and was just in time to see Peter happily bounce into the barn like the heaving ball of energy that he was.

Cavalla's ears flattened against her skull, nostrils flaring at the intrusion.

"Woah, Woah," Bucky put a hand on her withers, but her only focus was on the dog hopping closer.

In one swift and brutishly powerful motion, she slammed James against the stall post, an enraged snarling scream ripping through the barn, a noise that he had never dreamed a horse could make.

Not a total moron, Peter paused his carefree bounding at the noise but didn't back away.

The foal squealed at the commotion, skittering around on unbalanced hooves.

All the air had wheezed out of James, face, and chest sandwiched between two immovable objects. It wouldn't have mattered if he had been thrown against the wall with his back or his chest, either way, he cracked his head on the post.

Steve barreled through the barn doors and grabbed Peter by his scruff, hauling him from the building to get out of the mare's sight.

She danced around haughtily as James regained a semblance of his breath and untied her, allowing her to find her own way back into the stall. She did so, however angrily, making aggravated growling noises the whole time, pissed enough to continuously flash the whites of her eyes at James.

"Love you too," he grunted, nudging the stall gate shut with his knee. 

With his right arm braced protectively across his chest and the other rubbing his forehead, he shakily sat on the milking stool in the other stall.

Paranoia didn't eat him alive as he sat with his eyes closed, not feeling the need to open them as he heard hurried footsteps rushing up to him, nor did he open his eyes as warm, calloused fingers brushed over his forehead and prodded his chest.

"Do you have a concussion? Did she break your ribs?" Steve couldn't have faked the concern in his voice if he had tried.

James pulled in a deep breath, and though sore, nothing grated together or stabbed at him.

"I'm fine," he exhaled the same breath, peering out of one eye and fought the instinct to lean back. Steve was  _ so _ close, squatting in front of him, brows furrowed, fingers flexing because they wanted to finish their inspection.

"But-"

James cut him off with a waved hand.

"No apologies, I'm serious. You didn't do anythin' wrong, how were you supposed to know that Peter was gonna come in here? He's used to horses that like him and Cavalla doesn't like dogs. I shoulda made sure the barn doors were shut 'fore takin' her out of the stall,"

"Not your fault-"

"Sure, fine, but it's fine, a'right?" Bucky leveled his look the best he could without turning red, especially with Steve eight inches away from him.

"Alright," he conceded, but Bucky wasn't dumb enough to think that he had won that argument.

"I'm fine, really, I can handle being thrown around, probably better than you," James joked as Steve continued frowning at him, cracking a wry smile at the blond giant.

The kiss caught him off guard, chapped lips pressed against the corner of his mouth for a startling second before Steve was standing up.

"You're full of shit, Barnes,"

James threw his head back and laughed, even when his ribs creaked. 

* * *

****NSFW warning in effect.****

The barn is hushed and serene, the open barn door allowing the yellowed moon to stream into the lazy air.

Farm animals munched on hay, content with the lulling chirp of the early autumn insects, the night rolling in on cool waves that smelled of change.

James reveled in the warmth of the bathwater, sprawled out as far as the porcelain confines could offer.

All of his baths had been cold, creeks tend not to have temperature controls, and it was always too much work to heat up the water he used in the morning to scrub his body, too caught up in the fact that he was getting clean to get picky about the temperature.

This water was hot enough for little wisps of steam to dance off the surface, curling up into the cooling air.

Steve had said something about soaking his sore ribs before they started bruising, but James was too excited about being submerged in hot soapy water to finish listening to him.

Now, he was so clean he felt like the scent of cloves was permanently infused into his skin, scrubbed hair hanging out of the tub as he leaned back. Though it was big enough to fit him, his elbows rested on the rim, bent knees poking out of the water.

Perfect for an average-sized woman, not a man that was over six feet and weighed more than he had ever had in his life, a tight fit for his broadening shoulders.

No matter how relaxed he was, he couldn't shut off his hard-learned instincts as the sound of shoes on dirt piqued his ears, pulling his attention to the slightly ajar doors, even if it was just a barely slitted eye glanced in the direction.

Steve was leaning against the door jamb, arms folded across his chest as he looked, sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

The look was innately predatory, and that was reassuring somehow. Maybe it was because James had been around too many predators, for too long, or that he had been a predator to too many people.

Steve wasn't looking at him like he wanted to hunt him or pursue him; nothing about his body language screamed of hunger or starved; James just felt unabashedly  _ seen. _

Steve could _see_ his burned up arm resting on the edge of the basin, could _see_ the way his skin was probably red and blotchy from the heat and scrubbing; he could _see_ more of him than he had ever before, and he was just standing there.

James valiantly fought the urge to squirm.

"How are your ribs?" Steve asked gently, face invisible in the shadows.

"Sore," he answered honestly. He was right with his initial observation; nothing was broken, only bruised and scraped up, the raw patches stinging with soap.

He shrugged up his right shoulder out of habit, water sliding off him as he did so. "Nothing I can't handle,"

"I don't doubt that you can handle it," Steve's eyes followed the motion of his shoulder with unshakable focus. "I'm just worried,"

"You need to start worrying about better things," James teased.

Steve detached from the wall and walked closer slowly as if James would spook away from.

"Can't think of much better to worry about,"

James wasn't going to argue, especially when the simple statement had his organs somersault in his body.

Steve lowered himself to his knees next to the tub, fingers tentatively touching his burnt arm, butterfly light brushes on the burns. Of course, James assumed that it was soft and gentle; he couldn't feel a damn thing on that arm.

It was alien to watch Steve touch him but not feel it, as if the arm belonged to someone else. Before he could spiral down into the part of his mind that wanted to reject his arm as if it belonged to someone else, Steve's rumbling voice interrupted him.

"I don't like it when you get hurt," he murmured, fingers dusting over melted flesh.

"Sorry," Bucky whispered. "Ditto,"

Steve's mouth quirked up a little, and James took it as a victory.

James recognizes that there was only a thin layer of soap bubbles to cover what was left of his modesty, yet he couldn't find it in him to care enough to do anything else but close his eyes.

Steve kept touching the burn scars on his arm, from the jagged edges that reached for his throat where the flame had wanted to gobble him up, to down to his wrist and onto the back of his hand. He found the scar where he got bit by a dog when he was little, and how the last two fingers on his left hand don't fully extend because they were almost cut off when he was fifteen by an upset customer who caught him cheating at a game of poker. 

James explained all of this to him with every scar he touched, hands rough and cool compared to the water. 

"Enough bad stuff, there's always bad stuff," Steve said gruffly, a startlingly wide palm resting on Bucky's collarbone, the skin once sliced open by a bottle in a tavern fight.

A calloused thumb skimmed over his cheeks, sparking James' nerves.

"Your cheeks aren't hollow anymore because I feed you well," Bucky rolled his eyes, but Steve was already moving on.

"This cut is all healed up, nothin' but a scar now," blunt fingertips tap the mark on his arm that had traveled up the Mississippi bleeding and swollen.

He rests his hand over his heart, feeling the thunderous pulse. "You're not scared anymore, not afraid of the shadows, or when Peter barks, or me," he said, quieter this time, not as if it were a secret, but as though it was only to be spoken in hushed tones after sunset.

Bucky's breath hitched.

That hand, no matter how well-intentioned it was, had Bucky's body thrumming with anticipation, especially as it slid lower, nothing but smooth skin under the water.

"Your ribs aren't visible anymore," Steve said as if his hands were lingering on his ribcage and not his bellybutton, feeling the rapid rise and fall of James' breathing. 

Not once in his life had Bucky been filled with such  _ want _ ; it had never ricocheted and throbbed through his body like this, pulling every ounce of his being towards Steve.

Steve's face was flushed a shade that was simply stunning, white teeth capturing his bottom lip in an innocent enough action, but Bucky's reaction was anything but. The ease in which his knees dropped open was probably shameful, but etiquette was  _ not  _ where his mind was focused.

Steve's mouth popped open, his face a wash of emotion and delicious heat, and Bucky couldn't help himself anymore.

Steve was surprisingly easy to pull down, even in his state of very obvious surprise. One hand tangled in the collar of his shirt to hold him still, Bucky kissed him like it was the last time he would get to touch him. 

He recovered remarkably quickly, not too shocked by James' reaction.

Every time that Bucky kissed him, he'd marvel at the fact that he hadn't pinned Steve against the wall every time that he walked past him.

Every thought in James' head washed away at the press of Steve's lips against his, the buzzing in his ears roared over his body, hot and alive. Water dripped off his arm and onto Steve's shirt as he wrapped his arm around his neck, fingers knotted into dark blond hair that was long enough to get a satisfying handful of and elicit an  _ equally  _ gratifying noise.

The fractional part of his brain that was still capable of coherent thought understood that it would be less than appreciated to pull Steve into the tub with him, but the distance was killing Bucky.

Blunt teeth scraped over that particular spot behind Steve's ear, and he groaned, a deep rumbling in his chest that had James' heartbeat spike, blood pounding.

Glinting blue eyes caught James' attention, pupils, wide and eating up the light of the single candle burning on the workbench, heavy with hunger. Those eyes searched James', and he seemingly found what he was looking for etched somewhere on his blushing face or parted lips.

Callused fingers curled around him, so gentle it nearly offended James, but his mind flashed white for a split second at the sensation, a sharp gasp hissing through the cool night air.

Water sloshed out of the tub in indelicate waves as he unintentionally bucked up into his hand, the grip in his hair tightening to presumably painful levels. Steve makes no attempt to acknowledge the pain, his perpetually chapped lips were pressed with agonizing care into Bucky's throat that bobbed with his sharp breath.

Bucky wondered if he had ever had any humility or if it decided to fly away every time that Steve touched him.

Risking a glance down to his parted knees, all Bucky could see was Steve's dripping arm disappearing under the surface of the water, hastily pushed up sleeves soaked, rivulets of water running over corded veins.

Bucky was  _ burning _ . He knew heat, he had intimate knowledge of how starving flames were and how quickly they consumed, but this was burning in a way he had never felt.

Every nerve in his body was alive, singing and sparking, every ounce of his focus was pinpointed on the motion churning the water. He couldn't control his breathing if he tried, panting as if he was in pain, humming into Steve's mouth as he pressed outrageously tender kisses on the side of his mouth.

Lightning zapped his body, a client never taking the consideration to reciprocate in any other way but half hearted at best, never able to find solace in his own touch without disgust rising his gorge.

His body shook but not out of fear; adrenaline flooded his limbs but not paranoia; he wanted,  _ needed _ , to get closer to Steve, not farther away.

"Steve," he whispered, voice ragged. He didn't know what to say, how to say it, how  _ any  _ words could be said while his self-control had been reduced to stuttering hips and gasping breaths. 

James was hushed with a scorching kiss, Steve's hand that had been moving at an aggravatingly lackadaisical pace that was just enough to render him wild, slid faster, not caring about the water splashing out onto the barn boards.

James came fast and hard, slamming into him like the undertow waves, spinning him out into the open ocean, feeling raw and giddy. His white-knuckled grip on Steve's shirt didn't release for several long seconds.

Blurry eyes refocusing, he sees Steve unabashedly drinking in his expression, his overly flushed face, disarrayed still wet hair, the rise and fall of his chest as he gulped in lungfuls of air.

A thousand different ways to leap out of the tub and get his lips around Steve raced through James' mind as Steve leaned close and kissed him in that toe-curling way that he thought only existed for the unbroken.

"I've wanted to do that for a  _ while _ ," Steve whispered against his cheek, and James grinned, wild and sharp, all canines and predator.

"Well, I want you on your back, right  _ now _ ,"

Steve growled, fingers tangling together as they both tried to unbutton his shirt.

A long wavering cry echoed from the house, whipping both of their heads around.

"STEVEY?" Peggy cried, her voice carrying from the upstairs window, and it quickly dissolved into tears when she realized she's alone in the bedroom.

"Shit," Steve grunted, pulling away from James.

Disappointed, James leaned back in the water and watched Steve haltingly get up off his knees, splashed with water and painfully hard in his pants, hair wild, and pupils blown wide, heavy with something that had the James' stomach turn in anticipation even though he could hardly move his legs.

A searing kiss was pressed into his mouth before Steve was jogging out of the barn, being led away by a sobbing toddler.

James collapsed back into the tub and stared open-mouthed at the ceiling, trembling in every limb. He knew what it felt like to come off an adrenaline rush, how it led to shakes and nausea, but this was better in every conceivable way.

He knew he should get out of the water, it wasn't all that warm anymore, and he  _ was _ clean before Steve had remedied that.

James bit his lip to keep the smile back, but it didn't help and spread across his face, stupid and overwhelmingly euphoric.

He began thinking up plans for his retaliation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *NSFW WARNING* I really had to harness the fractional part of me that is attracted to men to write that, and I hope it works because it was MORTIFYING to write.  
> Long note ahead, sorry not sorry.  
> I have decided that 1850's Steve has permanently chapped lips and I'll fight you about it.  
> I have shamelessly stolen the bathtub scene idea from a Neville/Draco fic, and you guys so wonderfully helped me pick out an injury for James because we're weird like that. Thank you all for that.  
> I have severe nerve damage in both of my legs so I can lend some personal experience to Bucky's arm, though not to the extent of having third-degree burns, I do know what it's like to not recognize parts of your body as your own simply because you can't feel them. I couldn't shave my legs for the longest time because it was like touching someone else, except my brain was looking for the sensory input that the touch required. A truly disgusting and horrible experience. ALSO! I don't think burn scars are gross/shameful or anything, but I'd assume Bucky hates them so that's how I portray them from his perspective.  
> My friends, I wish I could crank out four thousand word chapters like I used to, and I regret to inform you that this fic is coming to an end. This is the 'five or fewer chapters left' warning.  
> BLACK LIVES MATTER! DONATE AND VOTE VOTE VOTE!!!!


	28. Chapter notes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, the chapter notes that started this all. I can post it now because there are no more spoilers left in the 'phase one' of the 'master plan'.

  *     1. Aurora Run (Starts out in early spring, may)

Bucky is running away from New Orleans because he was forced to do some shitty things there, I don’t know what. They fucked up his arm tho. Russians? Yes. 

He goes to Aurora falls which is in Illinois, and he’s dead dog winter bear tired and he talks with a general store clerk which happens to be happy hogan and he asks him where he can get a good job Like any openings, at all. 

Happy tells him, (a long-winded story) about poor Steve Rogers and his sister who passed away and the baby she left behind and the dad fled and how he has to raise her while minding the farm and the animals and how he is struggling. Of course, he is getting help from the community but it is really not enough, and he has been looking for help. Happy tells him that Steve should be stopping by the general store soon to pick up a treat for his little niece before heading back to the farm. 

Bucky waits. And with the very last of his money, he buys some soap and something else idk.

His name is also NOT Bucky yet, Peggy calls him that because she very well can’t call him mama yet. Yet.

Sure as shit, Steve stops by Happy’s general store and Happy introduces the two of them, and Steve and Bucky have a talk about how much he would do on the farm.

Bucky is so fucking tired that he would literally do anything if it meant that he got to sleep in a bed for once instead of on the floor. He jumps up on the covered wagon and they head back to the farm. They make polite small talk. About I don’t fucking know. Maybe about how if Bucky hurts Peggy or the farm, he wouldn’t have a problem in the world hiding his body.

SO they get to the farm and they are greeted by a very happy go lucky stumbling eager to please collie dog, named Peter. Bucky raises an eyebrow at the name and Steve shrugs, smiling. Damn that smile. 

Wanda comes out of the farmhouse with baby Peggy, who is about 18 months old. Peggy is super happy to see Steve and he is happy to see her. He introduces Wanda to James and tells her that he is going to help out around the farm. Wanda is suspicious but she trusts Steve. Bucky goes through the motions of helping Steve unload the covered wagon from his trip which had been about a day. They unload the new feed into the barn and he briefly meets all of the animals. Steve notices how fucking _tired_ he is and cuts him some slack. He is malnourished from eating maybe, heavy on the maybe, once a day on his journey up the river.

They eat together and it takes everything in his body and mind to not open his gullet like a bird and swallow it all whole. He makes tentative friends with Peggy, who is cautious of him, but loves his pretty hair so he’s cool in her eyes. He stumbles down to the river and takes a bath before coming back up to go to bed. He immediately and irrevocably falls in love with Peggy.

Other chapter ideas:

Gets used to around the farm and eating three times a day, but both of them learn pretty quickly that he is not that handy around the farm. Whoops. He can do all the work just fine but he has never been around animals all that much and gets kicked and bit often. While he is taking a break, Peggy waddles up to him and talks to him in her baby jabber and plays with his hair, you know, like how a baby does and laughs at him. Steve finds him, Peggy, and Peter laying in the grass, Buck making a daisy chain for Peggy and she is over the FUCKING moon with it. “Pretty pretty!” She takes the second one and sets it on Bucky’s head. He loves her so much it actually hurts him. And me.

As promised, ~these chapters~ I adore them but it’s painful writing them down.

Buck is in the house with a princess baby feeding her and making breakfast, and _fucking_ Steve just walks on into the house without a goddamn shirt or a care in the world, saying some offhand comment that it had cow shit on it. Bucky has enough calm to not dissolve into a puddle but tells him that he is not washing that. ?Drool? Yes. Later on, like a few chapters, he decides to get Steve back and because Peggy loves jam more than anything, she got it all over his shirt, so he takes his off and washes and is outside, having not put another one on, and is hanging it up to dry and Steve comes by and sees. *GASP* oh dear, that was completely intentional on Bucky’s behalf, no worries. Does he get Steve’s attention? Fuck to the yes.

Buck falls or something and hurts his ankle and Steve relocates it, A LOT like in that scene in Lizzie Borden chronicles with that hunter and that hot abused lady. I wanted them to fuck but oh well. That show was too bad to see what happened. Does he keep his hand on Bucky’s ankle longer than necessary? why yes he does. Am I complaining? Also, no.

Chap: Before Steve can go on an underground railroad mission, he learns that Buck has never shot a gun before, so he takes him out to shoot a gun. Is it a cliche? Yes. Do I care? No. I’m writing fanfiction. I am already scraping the bottom of the barrel. It’s fine.

Chap: Long day of work, Steve comes in late and Buck is sitting in the rocking chair holding Peggy who is asleep on his shoulder. He brushes the hair off of Buck’s cheek. It’s sweet.

Filler chapter idea

It’s the first harvest of hay and they have to go out and reap it, which is back-breaking at best. The two take a break laying in the middle of the field surrounded by grass (Wanda came to watch Peggy) and they talk and it’s the first time that they get each other to like, _laugh_ laugh. It’s great.

Another chapter:

Steve works for the underground railroad. Works for is a strong wording, this morally obligated jackass has been doing it for years. More on that later.

Steve has a trapper friend named Clint, who is hella good with the bow. **_Shocker_**. And he is in on the underground railroad schtick and he is the one that delivers the ‘cargo’ to steve in the dead of the night. Or something else idk, look it up. But Buck doesn’t know this and he is a little jealous of the easy way that Clint is with Steve and finally, Clint asks him **stuff**.

Another chap: Steve leaves for about a week to go take the family of slaves up to the next safe house ~about~ 80 miles north. He comes back broken as hell and bloodied like shit and Buck has to stitch him together again. _Why did he bring so many guns with him? It makes sense now, it was supposed to be a supply run_. Also, a good place for a first kiss spot.

Buck gets to know the next slave troop that comes through after squeezing the secret out of Steve, figuratively though. He is totally on board with the plan. He has long talks with all of them down in the basement of the barn

Chap: Natasha stops by for a visit. What do they talk about? Good question.

ANOTHER CHAPTER IDEA (this is later on)

Bucky gets hurt doing something and has to take a bath and yes, we are going to steal from that scene in “All of this and heaven too” BECAUSE WE’RE THIEVES




**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can tell, I didn't follow the plan for every chapter, nor did I write every chapter idea into the fic. Reading this over again has reminded me that I am very funny.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His frantic sweep of the room yielded Steve, who stood frozen in the doorway, seemingly caught in the decision of stepping closer or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *TRIGGER WARNING! MENTIONS OF SEXUAL ASSAULT AND MURDER***  
> In damn near every fic and story I've ever written, there's a nightmare scene. I can't believe I didn't put on in earlier, I think I planned on it but never found a place to shoehorn it in, so here it is. The nightmare scene.

_*****THIS TAKES PLACE ABOUT TWO MONTHS BEFORE THE CURRENT EVENTS, THINK OF IT LIKE A FLASHBACK OR SOMETHING, NOT LIKE I TOTALLY FORGOT TO ADD IT EARLIER***** _

The nightmares were the dark and twisted consolation prize James got to carry up the Mississippi, scorching, smelling acrid and charred.

They were never the same; they couldn't be when he had lived through so many hellscapes for so many years.

Some nights, it was his arm; ripped open and dripping blood on the greasy alley, the blinding heat of the fire devouring his skin and hissing with hunger. Some nights he was looking down the barrel of a gun, pulling the trigger on nameless, faceless people, Zola's rancid breath whispering in his ear for him to kill, kill, _kill_. Some nights, it was men pawing at his body, stomping on his hands, fingers clenching his jaw, forcing tears from his eyes. Some nights, he couldn't save his girls, couldn't catch his Ma as she slipped between his fingers, couldn't scrub the blood from under his nails.

James woke with a shout; body coiled tight to fight the monster in his mind, hands tightened into cruel fists to start swinging.

The room was dark around him; no demons slithered in the shadows, no men with bullet holes between their eyes stared at him from the corner of the room, not a thing out of place.

 _I'm not in New Orleans, I'm not in New Orleans,_ he chanted in his head. _I'm in Aurora Run; I'm in Aurora Run._

The quarter moon threw impressively bright slanted light into the room, lighting up the end of the bed, highlighting his shaking feet.

His frantic sweep of the room yielded Steve, who stood frozen in the doorway, seemingly caught in the decision of stepping closer or not.

**Steve's POV**

Bucky's hand fluttered over his throat as if to wipe off the nightmare, chest heaving as he scanned the room for a threat. Steve was struck by how feral James was when he hadn't carefully added layers of caution when he was around other people. There was nothing to hide the raw edge of ferocity and savage fear that lined every ounce of his body as he ran a trembling hand through his hair.

The burn didn't look as horrible as it did in the light of the barn weeks earlier, just silvered and bumpy in the pale glow of the moon; the scar from the slash wasn't even visible from Steve's vantage point.

James was awake and unharmed, physically at least; Steve figured he _should_ leave him alone. God knows he didn't like an audience when he woke up fighting.

And yet...

James sat in _Steve's_ bed, sheet pooled around his waist as his body fought to take in measured breaths, the limited light of the moon showing every hard plane and cruel angle of his body, the deep hollow of his throat, the sharp cut of his collarbones that threatened to slice Steve's hand open if he were to touch.

And he wasn't going to touch, not when James was panting like he was still running away, not when ice blue eyes watched Steve wearily like a cornered animal.

Instead, Steve took a step back, slow, and measured. He needed the trust the action would bring; he _needed_ for James to know that he was safe.

"You alright?" He asked before he could help himself, sucking in his lips as James tilted his head back to look at the ceiling, body shuddering with a memory.

Steve didn't look at his throat or how it bobbed when he swallowed, or that Bucky, who was too self-conscious to roll up his shirt sleeves, was still sitting half-naked and seemingly didn't care. He noticed, very much so, but he didn't look.

"Yeah," he rasped out, voice wrecked. He passed his hand over his face, scrubbing away the images from his eyes. "I'm alright."

Steve nodded in the dark, forcing himself to turn and walk away before he overstayed his welcome, or worse yet, walked further into the room.

James lay awake for the rest of the night, trying to convince himself that he was safe. And as the sun breached the horizon, he came to the realization that it was true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my American readers over the age of eighteen like myself, please vote. I'm sure you're tired of hearing it, and I'm tired of saying it. We have to vote, it's the only way out of this on fire garbage can. It's not a good idea to talk politics here, and I get that, but you're reading gay fanfiction about a national hero (albeit fictional) for christ's sake. This fic is already a political statement.  
> Black Lives Matter, vote for someone that can say it out loud.


	30. Pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Find me all the new Marvel characters introduced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the person that messaged me on Tumblr asking if I had a discord, I promise I'm working on it. Life is CONTINUALLY beating my ass like a drum, I'm not ignoring you or leaving you stranded. When I get a week without getting pitched a curveball, I'll get back to you.
> 
> *small note, if you come across a random word between paragraphs that are capitalized, don't worry about, that's how I find the spaces where I want the page divider, I just missed that one.**

Something that James had dreaded for months had quickly taken the shape of a rather pitiful hope. He wanted Steve to steal into his room and crawl under the covers, rough hands seeking for what Bucky was shamefully ready and willing to hand over.

His mind made quick work of decoding itself; he knew that it was different back then, that it was a rational and self-preserving fear born of experience and cynicism. Now, he could recognize that he  _ wanted _ it, that not every touch would make him recoil.

He was healing, and he basked in the very thought of it like it was sunshine.

The night was spent tossing in turning, watching the quarter moon climb in the sky, and every so often, he was caught up in the reality of what had happened, and a thrill shot through his stomach like he had never felt before and it had him biting his lip every time. 

The plan for his revenge had been concocted before he had even left the barn, but bet your ass, he spent the next seven hours obsessing over it.

* * *

Bucky was stirring coffee in the kitchen as Steve made his way silently down the stairs. Peggy didn't take too well to being woken before the sun was more than a sliver in the sky, and though James usually agreed, he couldn't fathom going back to sleep.

Steve offered him a quick smile before slipping into the small wash area, the curtain he slid closed after him wasn't fully pulled shut, and Bucky had to physically turn his body around so he would look.

Wondering if he was  _ always _ this hopeless, he sipped his coffee and didn't taste a drop.

Steve emerged from the room in fresh clothes and with wet hair, grinning his toothy dopey grin at James like it didn't give him heart palpitations, and the distance he was standing from him was anything but platonic.

"Make any of that for me, or you gonna drink the whole kettle?"

"I guess I could share a cup," Bucky rolled his eyes, stomach bottoming out with the domesticity of it. 

As he reached for the kettle, Steve intentionally leaned in close and brushed his whole body against Bucky's.

"Pardon my reach," he whispered cheekily, smelling like soap and warm skin.

James didn't push him away like a good-natured friend, didn't cant his hips like a wonton whore, didn't blush like a little school girl. He just watched him, the staggering width of his shoulders, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes from a life of squinting in the sun and boisterous laughter. He ran his eyes over the neatly taken care of beard, the buttoned shirt, the work-worn hands pouring a cup of coffee, the empty pistol hilt on his hip, gun carelessly left on the counter. He could afford to be careless with the weapon until Peggy woke up.

James knew what Steve looked like, he always found himself stealing a glance at the blond giant, but he couldn't help himself. He had started this habit of memorizing people in the glorious moment they were existing in when he realized that they could be gone in the next. He couldn't remember his mother's name, but he had burned the image of her laughing into his mind, her head tilted back in joy at whatever joke James had made in a desperate attempt at making her smile. He had done this with his girls too, memorizing the moments of love and joy and gentleness, storing them away in his mind.

So, he memorized Steve and the relaxed set of his shoulders, quirked up lips at Bucky's no doubt odd-looking face, and the heart-shattering blue of his eyes.

_ God, those eyes, _ he inhaled deeply, inadvertently doubling Steve's attention to him.

"What?" He whispered.

"You're beautiful," James answered honestly and absolutely  _ reveled _ in the immediate flush that rose from his neck. His mouth popped open to say something, but all that came out was a garbled noise of disagreement.

Bucky bulldozed the sentiment, pushing off the counter to stand toe to toe with him.

"That's the first thing I thought when I saw you, that you're beautiful. Figured I oughtta tell you, 'specially since you're makin' that pretty face right now,"

Bucky tilted his face up to meet Steve's eye, liking how he was still bright red and nervously licked his lips.

"No ones ever told you that before, have they?"

"No," Steve answered hoarsely, looking down at their feet and then back up to James.

"Pity," James said, lips pressed into the corner of Steve's mouth. "Guess I'll have to occasionally remind you,"

_ What a burden, _ he thought to himself as Steve's fingers wound into his hair, kissing every thought right out of his head.

James' mind went gloriously numb as Steve's tongue slid across the seam of his lips. He opened his mouth with a sigh, grasping for the remainder of his coherent thoughts, knowing that he had come up with a plan.

Steve was shockingly easy to move. Though he never strayed from his fixation of absolutely driving James wild, he put up no resistance or inquiries of Bucky pushing him against the table.

The vicious voice in his head reminded James that he couldn't do this if the roles were reversed. Couldn't be pinned against the table, couldn't be manhandled, he wouldn't be able to bear the constraining weight of a body draped over him. And he wasn't sure if he ever could again. He hadn't said a word about how the kiss against the wall weeks ago had left him shaking for hours even though he had wanted every delicious second of Steve's attention.

The night before he could handle, never an instance in his life that had mirrored the moment to torment the action. And now, with  _ his _ body smushing Steve's body into something, he could handle it. He could do more than take it; he wanted to devour it. The wall of muscle melted under his touch; one hand freed itself from his hair to cup his face. Something sharp and fluttery wreaked havoc in Bucky's insides at the motion, the sweetness of it.

Experience was the only thing that kept his fingers from fumbling as he unbuttoned the buttons of his shirt and happily slid his hands into the warmth around the back of his neck.

Steve growled into his mouth at the sudden coldness, the noise vibrated nicely through Bucky's body.

"Mmm, warm," James murmured, a hiss escaping as Steve tightened his grip on his hair.

Payback is indeed a bitch, so Bucky took no pity on the man beneath him as his freezing hands skimmed over his sides, smooth puzzle-piece muscles jumping under his palms.

It was marvelous, now that he was allowed to touch, and as far as he knew, no place was off-limits. His fingers counted every rib through the layer of muscle, traced the edge of his thumbnail down the grooves of his abdomen, pressed his index fingers into the dimples on his back. 

Steve suddenly pulled his head away with his hold on his face, just enough to look in his eyes.

God, if a sight ever made James weak in the knees, it was this. Steve's lips were swollen and parted as he sucked in deep breaths, eyes as dark as they were heavy, a pink haze settled on his cheeks that could make God cry.

Bucky had never look at anyone like that when he was pinned against a table, chest bare and heaving, knees parted so the man hovering over him could get closer.

And Bucky  _ wanted _ to get closer.

He wanted to ask what was wrong, a hundred words dammed up behind his own parted lips, but all of got stuck in his throat when he recognized the look on his face.

Steve was memorizing him. The way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, the flash of his tongue as he wet his lips unnecessarily, the thundering of his pulse on his neck.

The look made him feel a little cracked open, a little less impenetrable, a bit barer.

It sent shivers up his spine.

The hand that cupped his jaw was aggravatingly gentle as he swept his thumb over Bucky's cheek, coming to rest at the corner of his mouth.

_ Now, if that ain't an invitation, _ James thought to himself,  _ might as well make this worth remembering _ .

He wrapped his lips around the thumb, keeping his eyes on Steve as he pulled it farther back on his tongue.

The noise he made was flattering, to say the least. Bucky's brain sparked at the idea of what noises he would make when he got his mouth around something more than his finger.

Steve's belt was a simple one; it fell apart in his hands with almost no effort, which was for the best considering all of his concentration was on whether or not his artful tongue could replicate the noise he had made earlier.

Peter's booming bark echoed across the yard, snapping both of their attention to the front yard. Bucky didn't move until he heard Thor's welcoming whinny and a stranger's horse reciprocating.

_ "Fuck," _ Steve groaned emphatically, tilting his head back, delicious throat exposed.

Bucky let go of his thumb with an audible 'pop.'

"I was gettin' to that," he grumbled, mostly to himself, but the sharp turn of Steve's head was signal enough that he heard him.

"You go, um," Steve straightened up, running a hand over his face. "Go see who it is. I need to uhh," he gestured lamely to himself. "Put myself back together again,"

James nodded and took a step back, but couldn't make himself move any farther away because he was floored at the view in front of him.

Steve didn't seem to notice him staring, and that was fine because Bucky needed a minute to appreciate how  _ devastating  _ he looked. He was leaned against the table, wondrous torso on display as he quickly buttoned his shirt, hiding the purpling marks on his collarbone. His hair was a mess, his face could be read like a book, not to mention that he was so incredibly hard in his pants; it was right about all James could see as he scanned his body.

_ You're supposed to be calming yourself down, not whatever the hell your heart is doing right now, _ he scolded himself and forced his legs to walk to the door.

Legs moving on their own accord, he strode to Steve and grabbed his face, kissing him hard enough that the man bowed under the force.

"I'm not done with you yet," he said quietly, earning a nod and uproarious blush. "Like a damn virgin," he whispered, mostly to himself because he hadn't meant to say it out loud.

Steve's mouth dropped open, and for three bone-numbing seconds, James wondered if he was right.

James quickly stepped away before his body could betray him and test the theory. 

Turning on his heel, he fled the house. The sun had barely breached the horizon, just a smear of burning orange through the treeline, doing little to heat up the September air. Bucky, in his quick exit, forgot a coat. And shoes.

_ "Motherfucker," _ he hissed and danced between his feet, cold porch boards biting through his threadbare socks.

A buckskin stallion strode confidently down the drive; the blindingly white sharp-toothed grin of the rider was the only thing visible under the brim of his hat. A dark brown stallion followed a few horse lengths behind, the rider offering no acknowledgment to James.

"Jamie boy, ya beautiful bastard, how are ya?" Clint crowed as he dismounted, trusting Hawkeye to behave. And to his credit, the stallion started to lick Peter's head vigorously, and the dunce stood there and panted happily.

"Can't complain," Bucky smiled and ignored his cold toes in favor of walking off the porch.

"If you keep gettin' bigger, you'll have to start wearin' Stevie's clothes," Clint grinned like they were co-conspirators, big arms outstretched.

The thought made his heart hiccup and settle warmly in his stomach, and he grinned at the bounty hunter genuinely.

"And I'd look better in 'em too,"

Clint hooted out a laugh and wrapped his arms around James in a tight hug. He smelled like horses and leather and quality tobacco, and Bucky melted a little in the embrace, feeling safe and secure.

_ This is what healing feels like, _ he thought.  _ Feels right. _

He released Clint before it got awkward, and the man patted him gruffly on the shoulder with a wild grin.

"Our Steve in the house?"

"Uh, yeah, but Peggy is still sleepin'," his heart, the traitorous bastard, flipped at Clint, handing him any sort of claim on Steve.

"Good. Uncle Clint can wake her up,"

Bucky shook his head at Clint as he jogged up the steps and walked into the house without knocking.

He hoped Steve had enough time to collect himself.

The barest groan of leather boots prickled Bucky's spine, and he whirled, coming face to face with Frank. After spending the better part of a decade killing people for a living, among other things, it was downright unheard of for someone to sneak up on James Barnes.

He covered his shock as smoothly as he could, but Frank didn't seem to care, nervously glancing around the farm.

"Could you show me where my mare is?" he asked in a way that could only sound polite coming from the broken glass mouth of Frank Castle.

"Yeah, she's in the barn," James sorely regrets not putting on shoes.

Frank nodded and immediately started walking to the building, Bucky quickening his pace to stay behind him.

Junebug and the calf snorted at him welcomingly as he pulled open the doors enough to slip into, Frank practically a ghost as he slipped past him only to stop dead in the aisle.

Cavalla's ears tilted to the door, her body a hard line of attention; the filly was trying her damndest to see what her mom was looking at but wasn't big enough.

James pretended not to pay them any mind as he slipped into the cow pen, using Junebug as a cover to watch.

Cavalla whinnied, high and clear, nostrils flaring as pawed at the stall gate. The spell broke for Frank, and he surged towards her, carefully offering her an extended hand to sniff.

She took one gulping breath with her muzzle pressed into the inside of his wrist and whinnied again, earsplitting and exuberant, the whole farm hearing her when she yelled,  _ 'I TOLD YOU HE'D COME BACK!' _

Whatever reservations Frank had about her not recognizing him flew out the window as she pressed her big horse lips to his face and greedily inhaled his breath, body shivering with excitement.

The calf was trying to get her tongue into Bucky's ear, and he used it as an excuse to turn around, suddenly regretting his decision to stay in the barn. Frank, a man capable of extreme destruction with a body made for cruelty, gently,  _ lovingly, _ stroked the neck of the curious filly. Her overgrown ears piqued up at his deep voice, and she copied her mother as she indelicately pushed her tiny head into his face. Frank's smile as they knocked noses was gut-wrenching to see, shattered, and aching.

Bucky's throat burned, and he silently let himself out of the barn, whispered Italian followed him out.

* * *

"You look like you got punched in the gut," Clint mused, eyeing his friend in the dim light.

Steve quickly glanced down at the table over the rim of his cup, shrugging in the least convincing way possible.

Clint, ever the bastard, leered at his collarbone.

"What's that on your neck? Is that a bruise?"

Instinctively, Steve's hand clapped to the purpling marks on his clavicle, only realizing his shirt covered them  _ after _ he had squawked like a hen.

"You're an asshole," Steve growled. "How'd you know?"

"Educated guess," Clint purred with a wink, leaning back in his chair.

Steve rolled his eyes. "I'm serious,"

"Your shirt is buttoned wrong, and your hair looks like you just got fucked by a tornado,"

Steve groaned, head falling in his hands.

"So, I can assume it's going good here?" Clint joked, wryly smiling at his friend.

"If you had shown up half an hour later, it would be a lot better," Steve responded, glaring at his partner across the table.

Clint smacked his knee loudly, sending a plume of dust into the air.

"God  _ damn  _ it, I've spent the last decade working my  _ ass _ off to get your dick wet, and I interrupt you just as it's going to happen?" He stared up at the ceiling in disbelief. "I've become my own enemy,"

"Don't say that," Steve cringed.

"Say what?"

"Getting my dick wet, that's not what it was,"

"Oh?" Clint raised an eyebrow. "Do tell,"

"What do you think that means, asshole?"

"That perhaps the fantastic Mr. Barnes was going to get  _ his  _ dick wet?"

"Clint," Steve grunted with a huff.

"Don't look at me like that, brother; I know you're a gentleman, never one to leave a lucky lad wanting,"

**_ "Clint," _ **

"Fine," the older man relented, setting down his coffee. It was better than Steve could imagine making, so he guessed it was James' doing.

"You like him."

"Yes."

"More than a half-naked tangle in a hayshed."

"Yes." His voice broke halfway through the monosyllabic word, and Clint sobered his humor immediately.

A decade on the road had hardened Steve; Clint had been witness to his transformation. The merciless life had carved the baby fat from his face in two months, crafted his body into that of a hunter's in twelve, gave him crows feet, and littered him with scars and a body count and the nightmares to match. But here, in the light of the rising sun and a flood of confusing emotions battling on his face, Clint saw the seventeen-year-old boy that had followed him like a puppy into the unknown.

He had killed for this man and would die for him in an instant, and it hurt to see him like this.

"Do you remember the morning after you had told me about your predilection for the less fair sex?" He asked, using the voice best utilized when trying not to spook Peggy, who was still less than enthused by her wild uncle.

"Yeah, I was scared out of my mind that you'd beat me into the dirt,"

"And did I?"

"No."

"Do you remember what I said to that seventeen-year-old kid who was experiencing his first hangover?"

Steve sighed and nodded, rubbing at his bearded jaw.

"You said I was just following the oath of the bounty hunters,  _ 'we don't go after women or children,' _ and that you couldn't fault me for stickin' to my guns,"

Clint grinned at his own clever self. "Yes, I did, but what did I say after that?"

"You said that God has a lot of evil to answer for before he can judge me for seeking a shred of humanity with whom I want."

Clint nodded, remembering how his aunt had spoken those words to him when he asked her why she hadn't married yet, and why she wanted to be a spinster with her friend Adeline.

"You still believe that, don't you, brother?"

Steve nodded, inhaling shakily.

"Yeah. I do. Just needed to hear it again, I guess."

The door creaked open, and James slipped in, beelining for the coffee kettle.

"Clint?" Steve asked, voice hushed.

"Hmm?"

"Thank you."

Clint reached out and squeezed his hand, unable to admit they were bigger than his.

"That's my job, partner."

* * *

Feeding Steve was already an interesting experience, and feeding two  _ other _ full-grown men that were built like they were taking it upon themselves to hold up the sky was damn near exhausting.

Bucky stopped counting how many eggs Steve cracked in the frying pan; he just flipped the flapjacks and listened to the conversation around them.

Peggy, awake and ready to entertain the guests, showed the gruff bounty hunters her toy collection to which they responded appropriately. Clint beamed like the damn sun when she had climbed down the stairs with the doll he had gotten her tucked under her pudgy toddler arm.

Looking at her seemed to cause Frank some degree of physical pain, but he couldn't look anywhere else but at her, only able to form a rough 'thank you' when she had deposited a sleeping Ned into his palms.

The man held the bunny in his cupped palms for the better part of thirty minutes, even though his endless fur overflowed into his lap.

Tending the flapjacks was excuse enough to part himself from the immediate conversation because all Bucky could think of was the line he had accidentally-on-purpose overheard when he was coming into the house.

_ God has a lot of evil to answer for before he can judge me for seeking a shred of humanity with whom I want. _

He wasn't sure if he was disappointed in himself for being surprised that Steve told Clint  _ or _ to think that he would have kept it from him.

It echoed in his head and wound itself behind his eyes. What he would have given to have heard something like that when he was young.

A weight he didn't know he was still holding slipped off his shoulders, causing him to square his shoulders and lift his head higher.

It felt nice, moving one step closer to being unapologetically himself.

* * *

Frank possessed more table manners than Clint, but to be fair, so did Peggy. He was quiet during the meal, letting Steve and Clint do most of the talking and guffawing, and took to stealing glances at Buck and Peggy.

Ever the conversation starter, she saw the horses out the window and excitedly turned to Frank with a fistful of eggs.

"See baby horse?" she looked at him expectantly.

"Uh, yes. I saw the baby horse,"

"Very pretty, she's so small," she nodded at the man.

"Yes, pretty, small, and a clever girl," he smiled at her, small and true. "Just like you."

Peggy grinned, victorious in her friend making.

Bucky and Steve shared a look across the table, a look that didn't go unnoticed by Clint, and he sat back in his chair smugly.

He only waited for a beat before inhaling deeply.

"Peggy, my love, do you wanna go for a ride?"

Her head snapped up, half a flapjack stuffed in her mouth.

"Go see Happy?" She said around the food.

Steve sighed, mourning the loss of the notion of her budding manners.

"Sure, we can see Happy. When we rode through town, we saw a traveling group of entertainers, thought I'd come pull you all out of this house before you forget people exist," he teased, thumping Steve solidly in the shoulder.

"What kind of entertainers? You sure this is something I can bring a baby too?" Steve asked skeptically, eyebrows all screwed up with concern.

"Their advertisement said they were a family act,"

"That's what they all say, and then they start shedding bodices,"

"Just because you don't care about the tantalizing beauty of a corset doesn't mean you need to ruin it for the rest of us," Clint mocked, the ever-present glint of mischief in his eye was downright gleaming.

Bucky's eyes snapped to Frank as his heart stuttered, the not so subtle admission by proxy loud enough for all to hear.

Frank didn't even blink. Didn't look at them, didn't pause his movements as he ate his food, his nervously jostling leg never ceased bouncing.

James forced his heart to settle down. Frank lost his family; he probably didn't care what people had to do to be happy.

The conversation had continued as he had been focused elsewhere, just a buzzing in his ear as he fought down the panic.

"God, fine. We'll go, but you're paying for all of us," Steve relented, tossing his biscuit at Clint, who's cheer didn't waver as it bounced off his forehead.

Peggy's giggle filled the room, her tiny body doubling over as Clint bit a chunk out of the bread, grinning at the toddler.

* * *

Steve wrestled Peggy into a bonnet, Clint muscled Thor into a harness, Bucky found where ever Peter had stashed his boots, and Frank helped hitch up the wagon.

Clint and Steve sat on the wagon's bench, joking and jostling each other like teenage boys, and Bucky called it a flat out miracle that neither of them ended up in the dirt.

Peggy busied herself by singing about everything she saw on their way down the path, excitedly clambering on top of James, grabbing a whole fistful of his hair to hoist herself up, in order to get a better look at a meadow of late-season wildflowers.

Frank shamelessly watched them, something about him told James that he knew more than he let on, and his suspicion was solidified when the man's eyes lingered on his hands.

The scars weren't subtle; half a decade worth of split open knuckles from barehanded beatdowns had left his fingers and knuckles a lattice of scars and twisted keloids.

James fought the instinct to shove his hands out of sight.

Slowly, as if already regretting the action, Frank rotated his hands so Bucky could look at his knuckles.

They were just as layered in scar tissue, silvered and deep healing maroon crisscrossed and overlapping.

"New Orleans, huh?" he asked, voice graveled and rasped.

"Born and raised,"

Peggy didn't care about what they were saying,  _ at all _ , happily hanging half her body off the wagon, trusting James' arm wrapped around her waist.

Frank nodded, flicking his eyes around them in his paranoid way that made Bucky a little anxious too.

"I gotta feeling you aren't a bounty hunting mutual of Steve's," Frank said quietly, and James knew he wasn't talking about being something other than a friend, but what he was before he dragged himself up the Mississippi.

"No, I never had the law on my side," James matched his hushed tone, unsure why he was talking about it.

Frank nodded, no emotion on his face.

"What was your tool of trade?"

"A Sharps Rifle," James answered without hesitation. Sometimes he woke up searching for the gun that hadn't even ever been his.

Frank nodded again. "Long-distance, huh?"

"It's easiest." He shrugged. It wasn't easiest; he had logged hundreds of hours with the butt of the gun growing into his shoulder; the effort and patience needed were damn near inhuman. But he never had to wash any blood from his clothes when he had the rifle in his hands.

Rubbing a thumb over the scarred up knuckles of his other hand, Frank glanced away.

"Yeah."

The conversation upfront gave no indication that they knew what the men in the back were talking about, and James couldn't help but be relieved. Steve had an idea of what he did in Louisiana, but he was sure the man had a limit of what he could handle, and James wasn't too keen on finding the line in the sand.

"Would I have heard of you?"

James sighed, leaning his head into Peggy's side. Her hand absently stroked his head, dragging her fingers through his hair messily.

"I hope not. I don't think you'd wanna be my friend after knowin' who I used to be,"

"They called me  _ The Punisher _ before I met.. before I decided that I was tired of being on the other side of the law," Frank offered, the unspoken reason hanging in the air.

_ Before I got married. Before I had kids. _

"The Winter Soldier," James ground out, combating his urge to cover Peggy's ears. He never wanted her to hear the name, even from his own mouth.

Frank huffed out a laugh that was just as gruff and harsh as the rest of him as his eyebrows shot up in recognition. He shook his head, a cataclysmic smile on his mouth. "And to think, Steve was worried that something bad would happen while you looked after the farm. I turned my back on god years ago, and I'd  _ still _ pray for whoever would try and cross you,"

There was a compliment in there somewhere, buried halfway between an admission and a joke.

* * *

Everyone and their mother must have heard of the traveling act because the town square was downright overflowing with people. People lounged in the grass on blankets, set up in chairs they brought, or just opted to take a seat straight on the grass.

"Bucky, dear," Clint asked, squinting at the crowd ahead of them, "Did you think to bring seating?"

They had tied Thor up behind Happy's shop where a few other horses were hitched.

Steve reached around Thor's head and swatted him, and finished buckling the feed bag to the stallion's head with a grumble.

"He's not a housewife, don't call him 'dear,'"

Clint grinned at James ferally; the joke about James wearing a dress was only halfway out of his throat before Steve shoulder checked him, arm swinging back as Clint slipped out of his grip, laughing.

James, who was most definitely not a housewife, didn't care to remind them that they were grown men in public, so he hoisted Peggy on his hip and took off for the town square, Frank trailing silently beside him.

A simple wooden stage had been constructed with a curtain and all; the only person visible was a man with a piano, a black strip of cloth tied neatly around his eyes.

Frank seemed physically incapable of turning his back to the crowd, leaving him in an awkward position of only partially facing the stage; the rigid line of his spine wasn't even attempting nonchalance.

Bucky carefully arranged himself on the grass so he could get up as fast as he could if he needed to, experience, and Frank's caution worming in his mind, Peggy happily wiggling her way into his lap. A woman across the lawn smiled and waved at him, and he was suddenly and very desperately needed for Steve to be the buffer between him and the townspeople again because there was no way in hell he could fake more than two conversations.

As if he had heard the plea himself, Steve materialized on his left and settled heavily in the grass next to him, sprawling out his limbs in a way Bucky could only be envious of. Clint walked behind him and flicked off Steve's hat before lowering himself onto the ground with a groan.

Bucky's spine prickled as Steve leaned close to him, breath hot against his ear as he whispered, "this oughtta be good," and nodding to the stage.

Bucky swallowed back a shiver, unable to look him in the eye.

The man at the piano played a dramatic tune loud enough to hush the crowds, fingers flying over the keys.

The curtains pulled open, revealing a single man on stage in a tailored suit and top hat and a big shiny grin as he threw out his arms, welcoming the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the quaint and beautiful town of Aurora Run, I have the absolute pleasure of introducing to you,  _ The Amazing Dames of the Mississippi!"  _ His voice rang out across the town square, and he backed off the center stage.

The rambunctious piano started up again as two women walked on stage, arm in arm.

The girl on the left opened her pretty little pink mouth to sing, honeyed curls shining in the light, the other girl harmonizing with her, platinum hair braided down her back.

James' heart stuttered in his chest, freezing his limbs as his mouth dropped open.

Fear and joy and merciless hope crushed his windpipe, squeezing the air from his lungs with a wheeze. There wasn't else much to the emotions flooding his system, crippling him with their volumes.

Peggy was too enraptured in the singing to notice Bucky sliding her off his lap onto the grass, his body numb as he rose to his feet.

"Bucky?" Steve asked, frowning up at him, "what's wrong?" His fingers brushed against his ankle to get his attention, but James couldn't hear him, couldn't feel him, he was walking to the stage.

"Hey!" Someone called out from the crowd, "Down in front!"

James floated to the stage, pulling off his hat to look at the girls better, his pulse shredding his arteries with its speed.

The singing women ignored him, their beautiful voices ringing out into the town air. That was until, of course, the girl on the left glanced down at him.

Her canary voice was cut off with a scream, her arm dislodging from the other girl as she clapped a lace gloved hand over her mouth in shock, baby blue eyes bugging out of her head.

"OH MY HEAVENS, JAMES?" She screamed again, not even bothering to pick up her skirts as she ran to the edge of the stage.

A hot, thick ball of emotion was wadded heavily on Bucky's diaphragm, making it hard to breathe any other way than sharp bursts as he caught her waist, easily swinging her to the ground.

She smelled just the same, jasmine and honey, as she wrapped her dainty arms around his neck and sobbed.

It wasn't as easy to ignore the chattering crowd as Bucky would have liked, but he wouldn't dream of stepping out of her bone-crushing embrace as he helped down the other girl, wrapping his arms around their shoulders as they cried into his neck.

The man that introduced the show hopped off the edge of the stage, eyes creased with worry as he jogged to them.

"Girls, what's going on?" He turned and squinted at James who wasn't even trying to blink back his tears, "Who are you? Let go of my girls," he made to reach for an arm but was swatted away.

"Oh Scotty, you wouldn't believe it, this is our James!"

"Polly, what on earth are you talking about?" The man, Scott, asked.

"James saved us!" Her giant waterlogged blue eyes shined up at both of them men. 

"James killed Zola."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate leaving you high and dry like Steve in the beginning, but I can't even articulate how long it takes to write a scene like that without cringing myself to death. Ya boi can't handle that shit very often.  
> Oh look at that I've upped the chapter count because I'm a sucker for pain.  
> Usually traveling entertainment in this time period were fucking MINSTREL shows, and I'd rather throw my computer into a ravine than even look at pictures of one for reference, let alone write a whole fucking scene with a minstrel show.  
> A nice little cliffhanger, no promises on when the next chap will be up so try and not get too upset with me about the cliffhanger.  
> My fellow Americans, we did it, guys. We got the annoying orange out. I am so fucking happy that I cannot articulate.  
> BLACK LIVES MATTER!


	31. Part two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW warning at the end, you know the drill. Skip the end, but not like, too far or you'll miss some important things.

It was a blur after that, movement and talking and questions and  _ so many  _ hands touching him, but it didn't matter. His girls were safe. They were alive, and they were in his arms, and they looked happier than he had ever seen them.

"You could pretend not to be enjoying this," Steve admonished, glaring at Tony, who was practically salivating at the reunion. Because he was an absolute SLUT for drama, he had ushered them into his tavern, inviting himself into the fold.

Polly was all but sitting on James' lap, fingers combing through his hair and petting his shoulders; Claudette still hadn't stopped crying.

The third woman, the one he hadn't dared ask about, walked in a few minutes later, head held high, pin-straight red hair cropped close to her shoulders. Her hair had always been her calling card, waist length, and fastidiously curled. Now it was missing feet of length and looked to have a shred of upkeep, and Bucky had never felt so proud of her.

"Natasha," he breathed as she walked up to him, pale finger ghosting along the edge of his jaw.

"I knew you'd make it. I knew he was lying when he said you were dead," her voice was just as rough as he remembered, but without the usual cruel twist.

"He said I was dead?"

"He said a lot of things," Natasha found her seat next to Claudette and pulled a handkerchief from her waistband, and offered it to the younger woman.

For the first time since he had laid eyes on the girls, Steve caught his eye from the other side of the rather large table. Peggy hadn't been too put off by leaving the show and busied herself with unlacing Jarvis' shoes. 

_ Damn those eyes _ , Bucky thought. So wide and so blue, confused and nervous but so trusting it was almost painful to look at.

"Steve," Bucky started, and it didn't matter because he already had his attention.

"These are my girls, my friends from back down in Louisiana,"

"Hello," He nodded to the women.

"This is Polly," she smiled shyly at Steve and smiled back, soft and kind.

"And Claudette," she wiped her watery eyes and waved.

"And Natasha," the fiery redhead stuck out her hand and shook Steve's, picking him apart with her eyes.

"I've been earning my keep at his farm," he clarified, shrinking under Natasha's sharp gaze. "Helping with Peggy and taking care of the animals," he explained further, and though she didn't seem to completely believe him, she didn't press it further.

"Okay, thank you, and as interesting as all of that information is, I can't really get my head around the fact that he  _ killed Zola _ ," Scott piped up from his spot across the table. He had sent a few other girls onstage to take over for Polly and Claudette, and he kept eyeing James like he was something to be feared.

"I didn't actually kill him," James said, tossing the squirrely man a look.

"No," Natasha agreed, accepting a drink from Tony. "But you deconstructed him, and I think it was worse than putting a well-deserved bullet in his head."

"You deconstructed him?" Tony asked riveted. "How does one deconstruct a person? With a knife? Also, who  _ is  _ Zola?"

"Tony," Steve hissed.

"You should've, Jamie. He hurt you just as bad as he hurt us," Polly said, tucking her head under his chin.

James looked away from the flash of alarm in Steve's eyes.

"If you must know, Tony," he glared at the barkeep. "Zola was the owner of the whorehouse and gamblin' den that the four of us were workers at." He didn't look at anyone while he said it; he didn't think he could handle their disgust.

"And I took apart his business right under his nose. I told his competitors that he was losin' money, which wasn't a lie, I turned his minions 'gainst each other, I got as many girls out as I could,"

Polly squeezed him tighter as his voice roughened, Claudette's hand curling around his free hand.

"I made New Orleans hate him more, and it wasn't hard; the man was a devil on earth. I had done some work for him against a particularly volatile family from the French Quarter, and they wanted revenge, so I told 'em where Zola would be, and then I left."

"And he didn't try to get you back?" Tony questioned, topping off Natasha's drink without looking.

On the other hand,  _ Clint was _ looking at Nat, and he was impressed if James had ever seen it.

"Oh, he did." James' voice darkened. "I'm harder to kill than he thought."

Steve sat back in his chair, his face showing that he was putting pieces together in his mind.

"How did you get out?" He turned the attention to the women surrounding him.

"We were leaving the city when Scotty found us," Claudette said, turning a watery smile to Scott, whose eyes softened at the woman.

"He asked us if we wanted to be a part of his traveling act. Told us we would earn good honest money, and he was right. All we do is sing and put on plays,"

A deep, shuddering sigh of relief escaped James, and he had to close his eyes for a few seconds.

_ They're safe, They're safe, They're safe, They're safe, They're safe,  _ replayed in his mind. When he was finally able to open his eyes again, he bore them into Scott.

"Thank you for savin' them and takin' care of them," he said solemnly, meaning every syllable.

Scott seemed a little caught off guard, but he nodded. "You're welcome."

"Oh, Jaimie," Polly sat up quickly, a sparkle in her eye that James hoped that he'd see again.

"You should come with us! I know you can't sing very well, but you're so big and strong now, I'm sure Scotty could find you a job on the boat," her words flew out faster than James could comprehend.

But what he could comprehend was the splash of absolute shock and pain across Steve's face before he gathered enough composure to cover it, his hand rubbing over his bearded jaw.

Natasha caught the look in her razor-sharp gaze.

"Bucky, I'm tired," a tiny voice said loudly, and all eyes turned to the toddler standing a bit away from the women and rubbing her eyes.

"Peggy, come here," Steve said quietly, opening his arms for the toddler, but she ignored him and started climbing the side of James' chair.

Detesting how every eye in the room was on him, Bucky scooped up the girl and set her on his lap, and Polly almost fell off her chair in the speed she was crouching down to look at the child.

"Oh my stars above, aren't you just the most adorable thing I've ever seen in all my days," she gushed, reaching out and petting the top of her bouncy auburn curls.

Peggy preened under the compliment.

"Did she call you  _ Bucky? _ " Natasha asked, her no longer groomed eyebrow arching.

"Yes, and I love it, so leave me alone," he grumbled, smiling back at his friend that barked out a harsh laugh.

"You always were a sucker for pretty eyes," Natasha teased, no longer talking about the toddler.

"What can I say," he mused as Peggy stretched out in his lap so Polly could keep playing with her hair. "She's damnably cute,"

"Yes, he is," Natasha murmured into her glass of whiskey, not looking away from Steve's wide-eyed gaze.

* * *

"You must tell us about Steve, Jaimie," Claudette said excitedly, bouncing on the bed next to him.

"What about him?" he asked innocently, glancing around the quarters. 

The girls had convinced him to come back to the boat with them, but only for the night. Steve gave him no opportunity to argue and told him that he needed to spend more time with his family and that he'd stop by tomorrow if he needed a ride home.

"Spare no detail, Barnes," Natasha admonished, reclining on the bed opposite.

The chambers were snug but clean, two girls to a bed, everything dry and neat.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he tried. And failed.

"Come now, surely know how he looks at you," Polly said, brushing out her long honey hair.

A knock on the door interrupted them, and a beautiful blonde woman poked her head through the gap.

"Everything good for the night, girls?" She asked, voice smooth. A ginger cat peeked his head through, too, sniffing the air.

"Yes, Carol, everything is great," Claudette said, grinning at her. "And thank you again for letting Jaimie spend the night,"

"Of course," her intelligent blue eyes meeting Bucky's. "Our doors are always open to friends.

"Anything I can get you before I turn in?"

"No, we're good, thank you, unless you want to stick around and gossip with us," Polly offered.

Carol rolled her eyes goodnaturedly.

"I hear enough of it with Scott, goodnight girls, Bucky," she nodded to them, and amid the chorus of reciprocation, she looked down at the cat.

"Time for bed, Goose,"

The orange tabby followed her out the door, and James wondered in the back of his mind if maybe Goose could give Loki a lesson or two.

James had missed this more than he thought possible, surrounded by his girls and talking, absorbing their presence and sweet perfume. It made his chest ache.

"What do you want to know," he asked, heaving a sigh.

"Is he as strong as he looks?"

"How good of a kisser is he?"

"Is he kind?"

James cast his eyes to the ceiling at the barrage of questions, losing the fight to keep the smile off his face.

"Yes,"

"To which one?" Natasha grunted.

"All of them,"

Polly and Claudette squealed, covering their laughter with delicate hands.

"The little girl, is she his daughter?"

"His niece,"

"Is he married?"

"No,"

Polly sighed wistfully, big doe eyes blinking up at him.

"Have you, you know," she blushed as if it hadn't been her job to ' _ you know.' _

"Sort of?" it wasn't supposed to sound like a question. 

"We'll decide for you," Claudette said, patting his shoulder.

The embarrassing and long-winded explanation of everything the two had ever done was met with squeals and gasps and laughter and a shocking amount of advice. Still, mostly it was the girls raining praise on James for finding someone that took care of him and never expected more than he could give.

"Does he know about what you did in New Orleans?" Natasha asked, hours after the sun had set and the world had gone to sleep. Polly and Claudette were laying on his chest and pressed against his sides, arguably the best blanket he'd ever had.

"Some of it. Knows that I'm real good with a gun, and I'm sure he's put it together that it wasn't the only thing I had to do,"

The look of distress on Steve's face flashed through his mind again.

"And he never hated me for it. I take care of that little girl every day, and she tells me she loves me, and he knows I've killed people and was a fancy, and do you know what? I've slept in his bed every night since I started working for him,"

Claudette blinked at him.

"He's never been in the bed the same time I was," he defended quickly, making sure to reinstate Steve's 'hero' complex in their minds.

"He left me alone on the farm for over a week once," he admitted after a few minutes of silence had passed. "Said he trusted me enough to keep all the animals and the property and Peggy safe while he was gone,"

The only light in the room was a flickering candle on the table in the middle of the cabin.

"Why would he do that?"

"You're a good man, James," Natasha answered. "Good men are hard to find, and both of you struck gold,"

* * *

If Clint was slightly more of an asshole, he would have teased Steve about how worked up he was getting.

The blonde giant was doing a pretty good job hiding it, matching Clint joke for joke and flawlessly taking care of Peggy, but he was madly fraying at the edges, eyes continuously flicking to the door as if James would walk through at any second.

Frank had seen himself out when he could sense that Steve's head was in imminent danger of popping off. If he were to be followed, they would no doubt find him in his mare's stall.

"Steve," Clint said, and his friend shotgunned the whiskey that had sat untouched in his hand all night.

"I know I'm overreacting, Clint; you don't have to tell me,"

"I wasn't going to tell you that you're overreacting; I was going to tell you that it's all going to work out,"

"Oh yeah? You sure about that?"

It was supposed to be a sarcastic and rude comeback, but it sounded borderline panicked as if he was actually asking Clint if he was sure.

"Did you really think he was going to stay here forever?" Clint asked, curious.

Steve paused, hands caught in his hair.

"No, maybe, I don't know,"

"Do you want him to?"

Abruptly, Steve was on his feet and pacing the whole house, quiet enough not to wake Peggy sleeping upstairs but with enough force that Clint maybe thought he was going to walk right through the floorboards.

"He's free, he can go where ever he wants; I'm not going to keep him here if he doesn't want to be here; he just found the family that he thought was  _ dead  _ for christ sake,"

He swiftly turned on his heel and did another lap around the house, expertly dodging an aggrieved Loki's paw that stretched down from the rafters as he reached out to bop him for causing a ruckus so late at night.

"He only came here as a stepping stone so he could get some money, and then he'd leave again; it shouldn't be that big of a surprise that he's actually leaving,"

"You're right," Clint agreed, helping himself to another glass of whiskey as he watched his friend walk around the house.

"I'm not going to stop him if he wants to leave; you heard about how horrible his life was when he was down there in New Orleans, you know that burn that he showed us when you met him for the first time? I bet you five dollars that's what he was talking about when he said that he was harder to kill than Zola expected,"

"He didn't tell you about it?"

"I never asked. He'll tell me if he wants to," Steve brushed Clint off, not having the patience to explain their dynamic to him.

"Do you know what that girl Polly meant when she said that Zola had hurt him just as bad as he hurt the girls?" Clint asked, not too pointedly or sounding too curious, a conversational tone.

"Yeah. I knew what she meant. Guess it just solidified some ideas I've had for a while now," this seemed to calm Steve enough to sit back down, but his knee kept jumping.

"I'm not going to ask," Clint clarified. 

"Good because it's not my business to tell,"

"You always were so horrible at gossiping."

Steve cracked a smile, even though it was small.

"It'll all work out, brother, just have a little faith,"

"In what?" Steve raised an eyebrow.

Clint gestured vaguely at their surroundings.

"Err, fate and whatnot,"

"Inspirational," Steve said wryly.

"I should write a book."

* * *

James helped the girls get ready for their performance that day, feeling an odd sense of nostalgia as he braided Polly's hair and buttoned up Claudette's dress.

The boat was a mess of people and laughter, and a concerning number of dogs and a parrot, performers hollering to be heard over the din of voices in the mess hall, the line to the food was confusing and looping. Bucky had a bowl of oatmeal and bacon pushed into his hands and was ushered to a table while the girls had to go do something he couldn't catch.

The man across from him was familiar, and it took a few seconds to realize that he was the man that had been playing the piano the day before. He didn't have the strip of cloth tied around his eyes, and Bucky's brief suspicion was right as he glanced at his eyes.

They were dull and unfocused, pointed in the direction of James but not at him.

"You must be James," the man said, stretching out his hand with impressive accuracy.

"Yeah," he agreed, shaking it.

"I'm Matt,"

"You play a mean piano, Matt," Bucky said, taking a bite of his oatmeal. It wasn't half bad.

He chuckled.

"I do, but you seemed to have upstaged me yesterday,"

James froze.

"Oh, sorry, I-"

"James," Matt grinned, a sharp-edged thing that made Buck think that maybe he was missing something. "I'm just joshing around; I'm really happy that you found them. They talk about you, you know, call you their hero,"

Bucky scoffed.

"I'm serious; they adore you. Would do them some real good if you stayed on with us. I'm sure Scott and Carol can find you something to do; there's always shit that needs to get done on this damn barge,"

"I have to uh, think about it for a while,"

"You don't have too long, we pick up anchor tomorrow," Matt said, and Bucky had to force himself to finish his oatmeal, feeling suddenly queasy.

* * *

"Steve?" James froze as he was making his way down the gangplank.

Steve stood on the dock, wringing his hat in his hands.

"Hey, Buck, can we talk for a second?" He glanced at the women surrounding him and cleared his throat. "Erm, alone?"

James shifted under the weight of the crate he was carrying and looked to the girls.

"Go," Natasha said, gesturing for another man to come grab it from him. The man was big and covered head to toe in mottled scars like the kind that stretched on Bucky's left arm.

"Thanks, Wayde," Polly said sweetly to the man, and he smiled at her.

"Don't rock the boat too hard, boys; we still have eight more towns to hit before winter comes, can't have you capsizing the boat," he winked at Steve as he stepped off the plank, his laughter a little unhinged at Steve's expression.

Natasha rolled her eyes.

"You can use our room," she kissed Bucky's cheek and made the other girls follow her to the dock so they wouldn't find themselves eavesdropping.

"Where's Peggy?" Buck asked, scanning the land for the toddler.

"Back at the farm with Clint and Frank," Steve walked up the gangplank and followed James down into the belly of the boat and down the winding halls to the cabin.

"Should I be worried 'bout this talk?" James half-joked. "Are you firin' me?"

"No, Buck, nothing like that," Steve said, quickly shutting the door behind them.

The boat swayed on the tide, turning Steve a little green.

"Alright?" James found himself in a defensive position with his arms crossed over his chest.

"I just need," Steve sighed and smacked his hat against his thigh. "I need to tell you something, and I need you to listen to me, okay? I need to say it before I lose the nerve,"

"Steve,"

"Please, James? Just let me," Steve pleaded, and Bucky's mouth clamped shut.

"I keep, god, I keep telling myself that I should be happy for you, that you found your family, and I am, I really am so happy that you found them and they're okay, but," Steve scrubbed a hand through his hair. The look in his eye was wild and a little scared. "I keep thinking about what Polly said yesterday, and I don't want you to go with them. I want you to stay here, on the farm."

The word hung in the air, spinning on the cooling air, the admission dropped James' jaw.

"I  _ hate  _ myself for asking this, Buck, I really do, but," He looked to James, raw and nervous and one step away from falling apart.

"Stay. Forever. Or until you get tired of us, or get tired of Peter, or me, but just, don't go yet. Peggy would really miss you, and it was starting to feel like a home again, and I don't feel so helpless when you're there with me," Steve was rambling now, eyes wide and unable to halt the words pouring out of his mouth.

"And I don't know exactly what we've started, but I like it, and I want more of it and more of you, all the time, like  _ all the time _ , and Peggy kept asking for you last night, and I don't know how to be alone anymore,"

Bucky's heart was trying to rip its way out of his chest.

He took a step closer to Steve until their chests bumped together.

"Say it again," he demanded, locking their eyes together.

"All- all of it?" Steve whispered.

"No, dipshit," Bucky grinned. "Tell me what you want,"

"Stay with us. Please. Don't leave."

Steve's back collided with the door harder than Bucky would have usually dared, hands fisted into his shirt.

Steve's kisses were gentle and pleading as if he could convince him to stay with his lips alone, and if James had been indecisive, they might have swayed him.

James growled at the tenderness and shoved Steve harder against the door, harsh and unyielding as he broke the seal of Steve's lips with his tongue.

He swallowed the surprised gasp and devoured him, licking into his mouth as his knee slid between Steve's thighs. The hands on his shoulders tightened, the barest hints of a whine filling Jame's mouth.

"What was that?" he whispered against Steve's throat, pressing his teeth into his skin as he smiled.

"What was what?" Steve asked, sounding punched out and hoarse.

"Hmmm," Bucky hummed, letting his breath wash down the back of Steve's neck as he pressed his lips behind his ear. "Guess I'll have to try again to see if I heard you right,"

He pressed his knee up higher and scraped his teeth against the patch of skin behind his ear.

" _ Gah, fuck, _ " Steve growled, hips jerking forward. 

"That's what I thought," James said smugly, dragging his clawed fingers down his chest, smugness growing as Steve squirmed.

"You have a mouth on you, James Barnes," Steve admonished; the effect he was going for wasn't quite as powerful as he thought it was, shamelessly grinding down on Bucky's thigh and all.

Everything James wanted that morning was pinned up against a door waiting for him, and he didn't waste any time in taking what he wanted.

Steve was burning hot and hard under his palm, the kiss that he had aimed at James' mouth turned sloppy as his brain left his body with a guttural growl.

"I think you'll like my mouth just fine," James purred, fingers moving as lazily as he pleased.

Steve's eyes flew open just in time to see James sinking to his knees, belt buckle, and buttons no match for his determination.

"Bucky, you don't have to," he rasped out, fingers curling around the collar of his shirt as he looked up at Steve.

"I know. I want to."

When he had taken Steve's thumb in his mouth the day before and had wondered what other sounds his mouth could elicit, he almost scolded himself for having such a bland imagination.

One massive hand had snarled itself in James' hair, and the other was a fist caught between Steve's teeth to muffle the growls and moans.

James glanced up to check on Steve and was once again blown away by how beautiful the man was. Cheeks settled with a pink haze, eyes wild and shiny as they were trained down on James, chest heaving.

Steve wasn't going to last long, by design, James was braggably good at what he was doing.

He was trying to keep it as tidy as possible; they did have to face other people after this, so he didn't push himself to the point of making his eyes water.

Cheeks hollowed and tongue writhing, lips pressing sweet kisses in places he never thought he'd want to see again.

" _ James _ ," Steve groaned breathily, and for a second, Bucky thought it was encouragement, but it was a warning.

His name became a prayer after that, chanted under his breath with the effort of keeping his hips from getting away from him, and then a strained whisper as his fingers tightened in James' hair, every line of his body drawing tight as the heavens fell around him.

James sat back on his heels, hardly even needing to wipe his mouth as he watched Steve pant heavily.

"That was, you are, I can't-" Steve looked down at him in awe, hands shaking as he ran his fingers through his hair.

"Yeah," James croaked, liking how his voice sounded, and by the way Steve's head connected with the door, he did too.

"So," Steve asked, grinning that heart-shattering smile that made James' insides twist. "Does that mean you're staying?"

"Yeah. That means I'm staying."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I am an absolute GLUTTON for romance, should I pair up Frank with a girl too? Or a boy, gods know we don't discriminate here.  
> I just love the idea of everyone finding somebody that I'm down for literally anything.  
> Did I get everyone's cameos? I had a list somewhere but it has been a long ass month, I can tell you that right now, 2020 has thoroughly kicked my ass up and down the street. And guess who gets to be in quarantine for two weeks hoping a particular parent doesn't breathe in my direction? ME!  
> Anyway, sorry for the long stretch, I've been bunking in the living room for about three weeks and can't really write with six family members breathing down my neck. This whole chapter was written in the chunks my nephew was taking his nap or when it was rare enough for me to be in a room by myself.
> 
> BLACK LIVES MATTER!! WEAR YOUR FUCKING MASKS!!


	32. IMPORTANT QUESTION

IMPORTANT MESSAGE!!!

BEFORE I CAN CONTINUE DRAFTING THE NEXT CHAPTER, I HAVE TO KNOW, SHOULD FRANK CASTLE HAVE A LOVE INTEREST IN THIS STORY? IT WOULD BE SMALL BUT I LITERALLY CANNOT DECIDE.

SO, SHOULD HE GET AN INTEREST? A MALE OR FEMALE INTEREST, I'M CHILL WITH EITHER (because honestly, same) OR SHOULD HE CONTINUE BEING A 'LONE RANGER' SORT? 

IF YOU HAVE ANY SORT OF OPINION ON THIS WHAT SO EVER, PLEASE TELL ME. YA'LL PULLED THROUGH WHEN I NEEDED HELP WITH FIGURING OUT TO LOW-LEVEL MAIM OUR BITCH BUCKY, AND HOW WE HAVE TO DECIDE THE FATE OF FRANK.

Punisher fandom, I'm lookin' at you. We mostly consist of toxic masculinity boys pretending to be men and slightly unhinged soldiers, but the fanfiction hoes, help a fellow hoe out.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW warning my friends because I'm a heathen and 'tis the season.  
> Natasha is such a homie.

The snow was different from what James was expecting. He knew the bite of frost and how it glazed over windows and bit at his toes when he went through bouts of not having socks, but snow was different than ice. It was soft, for starters. Peter ran around the yard like he was rabid, jumping up into the air and snapping at the flakes, and then slamming himself into the less than an inch of powder on the ground, writhing in it. "Shouldn't there be, I don't know, more of it?" Bucky asked, frowning at the flakes already melting into the dirt path to the road.

"Oh, there'll be more, don't worry about that, but it's only the third of November, we have a lot of time for it to bank up to the eaves," Steve stood on the porch next to James, hands on his hips as he surveyed the yard, taking in the frolicking Peter. Peggy just was trying to brush the snow off of her little chair in the yard. The only results she was getting was wet gloves and increasing frustration.

"That's not true; it can't snow that much," James scoffed, glancing up at the eaves of the house with skepticism.

"Oh, it can, and it will. Sharon and I used to jump off the barn roof into the banks when we were teenagers," he grinned at the memory, and Bucky was relieved. It was getting easier for him to smile at the memories instead of getting tense and sweeping them off. It had progressed to the point where he and Peggy would talk about Sharon at night when he was tucking the little girl into bed. James could pretend that he didn't eavesdrop on the conversation, but he'd be lying, and he was tired of lying.

"I got chased by an alligator one time," James offered.

"You're kidding," Steve raised an eyebrow.

"Nope. Got too close to the swamp, and the dumbass lizard jumped out of the water like a bullfrog and hissed at me,"

"Did you shoot it?"

"No, I almost pissed my pants,"

Steve roared with laughter, tipping his head back and hand clapping to his chest.

"I was twelve; what did you want me to do, wrestle it?" James asked, unable to keep his laughter in check either as Steve wiped at the tears in the corners of his eyes.

"God, you're amazing," he wheezed, grabbing James' head and planting a hard kiss on his mouth before patting him on the shoulder and walked down the porch steps, offering help to Peggy. James blushed and licked his lips, turning to watch Steve play with the little girl.

* * *

In true Clint fashion, he did not tell them that he was coming over and opted to show up in the yard, singing Christmas carols loudly.

"It's not Christmas yet, you fuckin' dunce," Steve called out, tongue looser with Peggy napping upstairs. A shock of red hair sitting behind Clint had him clambering over his words.

"Oh, Nat, I didn't see you, I'm sorry, I didn't mean for you to hear that-" "No skin off my ass," Nat crooned, lip curling into a smile.

James didn't really find it all that surprising that Natasha had latched onto the bounty hunter, she did have a proclivity for violence and adventure, and Clint was well-versed in both.

James supposed that Clint wasn't the only one that had found himself a companion either. There had been a kid on the boat, sixteen years old if a day, scraggly and quiet but clever as hell and mean to boot. Bucky wasn't all too sure how the conversation had gone down, but the kid, Billy, had saddled up the stallion Frank had used during Cavalla's maternity leave and followed the grizzled bounty hunter out of Aurora Run.

James reassured himself that it was fine, that they would be fine. They both needed someone real bad, and they had found it. He just hoped that Billy would be okay with days-long stretches of not having a shred of conversation and Frank's less than sparkling people skills.

"What brings you back here?" Steve questioned after proper hugs were given. 

"We just handed over an outlaw to the Fayette county sheriff, figured we'd swing on in and have a chat," Clint said, sitting back in the porch chair.

Natasha perched herself on the arm of James' seat, sitting indelicately as possible, legs splayed in her trousers. She was a sight, in trousers and a man's shirt, leather vest and heavy boots. She had also chopped her waist-length hair off at her chin, leaving her stunningly attractive, even to James, and viciously dangerous looking.

The glimmer in Clint's eye told Bucky that he didn't mind the unladylike behavior -at all. Clint had known better than to expect anything more than crudely formed companionship with the redhead when she had propositioned him well over two months ago, claiming she wanted to see the wilds and was pretty good with a gun.

Clint was downright smitten, but he was a smart and respectful man. He'd keep his advances to himself until Nat was good and read to initiate them herself.

"That," Clint gave a quick side-eye to Loki, who had all but climbed into Natasha's lap, "and I got a message from the North Star,"

Bucky knew the code now since he had pestered Steve into telling him the secrets of the Underground Railroad.

The North Star was an anonymous person who put coded letters in a specific location when escaped slaves needed help going further north. It was a dangerous thing to do in the worsening times, but the four people sitting on the porch participated without hesitation.

"How many?"

"Eight. Four children, Four adults. Need to get up to Wisconsin before the first big snow,"

Steve nodded at the words, running his thumb over his bottom lip as he thought.

"I can lend you the wagon and some supplies, but I can't make it on this run, brother. I've gotta finish getting the farm ready for winter; I haven't gotten a farm ready for winter since I was seventeen years old," he shrugged one massive shoulder, showing his embarrassment.

"I understand," Clint said, nodding.

Loki purred happily from his spot curled on Natasha's lap, tail flicking dangerously as he eyed down the archer from across the porch.

Clint glared back at the feline.

* * *

Natasha's eyes, sharp and feline, narrowed at Bucky from across the room. She needed to see if her theory was right. It had been formulating in her mind since the second she saw the two grown men with the child and the near clockwork way the toddler had come between them. She just waited till Steve left the house.

Her wool socks were silent as she tracked him across the floor like the predator she was.

James was an adult man, which means he only squeaked  _ a little _ when she grabbed his arm and dragged him into the small curtained off room in the corner.

Peggy paid them no attention and continued playing her very animated game of dolls on the floor.

"Ouch, Nat," Bucky grunted, rubbing his bicep. Of course, she had the thought to not grab his left arm because she was a bitch but not unduly cruel. 

Her gaze was cold and calculating as she searched his face, scanning his jawline, her fingers ice-cold as she pulled at his collar and peeked down the front of his shirt.

"What the hell?" Bucky yelped, pulling the fabric out of her hands.

"No marks. At all." She squinted at him. "When's the last time that you two fucked?"

James' mouth dropped open as he stared at her. He wasn't a stranger to the language, it had been his life for twenty-five years, but it was still a slap to the face.

"What?" he spluttered, unable to keep his shocked mouth shut.

"You heard me," Nat deadpanned. 

"Have you and Clint?" he tried turning it on her.

"No. See? Not that hard."

"I-" James looked up to the ceiling, desperate for an escape. "we haven't-" he mumbled, rubbing his hand over his face with a sigh. "We haven't gotten around to that yet,"

There was no force on earth strong enough to keep his shoulders from inching up to his ears.

"Why."

"There's not enough time," he gestured out to the farm. "It's sun up to sun down work to do outside and inside, the animals, the crops, getting food, fixing the leak in the barn, butchering the pigs,"

James  _ hated  _ butchering the pigs. He and Steve only killed two of them, and it was horrible. It left him shaking for hours.

"There just isn't enough time in the day, and when we're done, we're so damn tired that we hardly make it up the stairs,"

He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest, and watched Peggy play, her bunny hopping around her excitedly as she kept her dramatic storyline going with the cloth dolls.

"And the kid too, right?" Natasha guessed, also looking at the little girl.

"She can sleep through a thunderstorm screaming in her ear, but every time I manage to get my hands down his pants while she's asleep upstairs, she wakes up." Bucky couldn't contain his exhaustion anymore. If he had energy, it would be frustration.

"And you want to?" Her clear blue eyes chipped away at Bucky's soul like they always did.

"So bad, Nat," his head knocked against the wall, an exasperated sigh huffing out of him. "Didn't think I could want someone this bad,"

With a small noise of consideration, she slipped past him and out the door before Bucky could even lift his head away from the wall.

* * *

"So let me get this straight," Steve frowned, accepting Ned as Peggy handed him over. The overflowing mass of fur looked ridiculous in his grasp. "You two want to stay here at the farm while Buck and I go on the call?" His furrowed brow flicked between Nat and Clint.

"Yes," Nat nodded, already bored with the conversation.

"Why?"

"You guys could use some time to blow off some steam," Clint winked at them.

Steve sat back in his chair and battled his blush while Bucky rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

"We still have to get the farm ready for winter; there's so much to do still, firewood and buying more supplies from town and-"

"Steven Grant Rogers,"

Steve's mouth clamped shut.

"I grew up on a farm, bigger than this one too. I know how to winterize; it's not that big of a deal. You'll be gone for a week at most, a simple drop off. You could do it in your sleep," Clint lazily swatted his hand through the air as if batting away Steve's rebuttal.

"Not to mention it'd do Miss Peggy some good to spend some time with her favorite uncle," he grinned at the toddler who paid him no mind, Natasha had settled on the floor with her, and she was  _ enamored _ with her blood-red hair.

Steve gnawed on his lips as he thought.

* * *

Clint was wrong. It wasn't a simple drop off, they couldn't do it in their sleep, but Bucky figured it would generate some pretty vivid nightmares.

There had been a pretty quick deadline to get to the meeting spot that North Star had designated, so Steve had to promptly make his decision. Bucky knew it wouldn't be all that hard for him to decide, the man had been itching to go on a run of any sort for weeks now, and this was the escape that he needed. But the responsible part of Steve (the dominant half of his brain) put up a good fight.

Clint and Natasha were given explicit instructions on how to take care of Peggy, who was excited to play with 'Aunty Nat' for a week. Clint had proven adept at taking care of the farm, even though he didn't look the part with his chaps and battle-ready eyes.

The ride to Wisconsin was quiet, Steve's rifle never more than an inch out of James' reach. The 'cargo' had come all the way from Mississippi, battered and weary but with a taste for freedom that Bucky had only a fraction of an understanding for.

Sun up to sun down, Thor steadily pulled the wagon, and luckily, there was never more than three inches of snow on the ground to hinder his certain steps.

_ Everyone's safe _ , Bucky repeated in his head, rifle balanced on his knees in the dark, the only light coming from the moon, too dangerous to light a campfire in fear of being seen.

Everything had gone so smoothly, up until the night their 'cargo' was being 'delivered' to the next safe house.

The details were too fresh, too recent, still a discombobulated jumble of noise and motion, but the slave catchers had shown up out of nowhere.

Three, on horseback, materializing from the dark like the horsemen of the apocalypse, guns drawn and galloping straight at the wagon.

James didn't think. Didn't hesitate. No second-guessing or careful preplanning, the rifle in his grasp an extension of a limb, a part of himself.

The crack of the shot ripped through the air like a peal of thunder, piercing the dark and hollowing out his bones. Thor balked at the sound, jerking the wagon sharply to the left, Steve's hands lose on the reins as he drew his pistol, aiming it at the others.

The middle rider fell from his horse, body already growing cold.

Didn't take much persuasion for the other two to get gone after that.

The next safe house had a dugout basement in the barn just like Steve's and belonged to an elderly Quaker couple who questioned them about the gunfire. Steve reassured that no one would come looking for them, and he was right.

Steve didn't say much as they got back in the wagon after denying the couple's invitation to bunk in the barn until morning. Just because the other two patty rollers hadn't followed them doesn't mean that they wouldn't recognize them when they left in the morning.

James didn't allow himself to think about his actions until the eight people were safely tucked away and would live to see another sunrise.

Only then, when they were five miles away from the drop off point, and they had pulled the wagon into a small meadow completely surrounded by a thicket of trees, did Bucky let himself think.

It wasn't the worst reason he had killed someone. In fact, it was probably one of the better causes.

But it had been so long since he had pointed a barrel at someone's head, so long since he had pulled the trigger with the intent of harm.

He scrubbed his hand over his head and found that it wasn't shaking. His mind was forcing the shame down his throat, but his body wasn't having any of it.

Steve was trying to be respectful from the other side of the wagon, but Bucky could hear him scuffing his boots against the ground as he waited for the other.

Grimacing at the thought of the inevitable conversation that they would have (Steve was a big fan of talking through problems while Buck opted to wait until they went away), James stood up and walked around the wagon. He didn't  _ ignore _ Steve, per se, but he definitely didn't acknowledge him as he leaned the rifle against the wagon and walked up to Thor, who was happily munching on a spruce bough and shaking the tree.

"I'm sorry I startled you," James whispered, stroking the stallion's neck. Thor flicked a half-interested ear his way, only partially paying attention to what the human was saying. Apparently, the offense was already forgotten.

He wanted for Steve not to talk to him for the rest of the night, or maybe the rest of the way home; he didn't want the judgment to come crashing down like he knew it was going to, didn't need Steve's morality getting in the way because James' was already doing a real good job of it so far.

So, fair to say, he hadn't expected to be kissed like it was their last few moments on earth.

Steve tasted like gunpowder and urgency, and the forgiveness James had prayed every night of his life for.

"You think," Steve asked, voice dripping with hedonism, callused fingers wrapped so tightly in Bucky's hair it forced his head back. "You can show me how to shoot like that?"

"Wasn't that hard of a shot, he was dead center," James argued, cold, chapped hands inviting themselves into Steve's shirt, sliding on the smooth skin of his neck.

He bit back a hiss as he pulled away, a tiny wrinkle in his brow. James had always wanted to press the lines flat between his eyebrows when he frowned, so he couldn't really stop himself when his hand drifted and pushed his thumb over the lines.

Steve carefully pulled his hand away and kissed his palm, a delightfully innocent and sweet thing that had James' stomach flipping and soaring away.

"You shot him between the eyes, in the dead of night, on horseback, from fifty yards away," Steve said slowly as if he had to explain it to Bucky, which, evidently, he did.

"Yeah?" he prompted, far too distracted by their previous activities to want to talk about  _ murder. _

Steve gaped at him in disbelief, amazed.

"How are you real," he murmured, eyes-catching and refracting the light of the moon.

The fingers still wound in his hair massaged the skin at the nape of his neck, a slow thing that made the hitch in Steve's chest catch.

"That's what does it for you, huh," James asked, keeping his voice as low as he could. "All I have to do to get you hot and bothered is being a good shot?"

"Only you can, Buck," Steve replied, the words sighed out of him, curling up into the night on his vaporized breath.

James' heart felt like it was poorly executing a somersault with the way that it was trying to break free of his ribcage.

"I bet you say that to all the pretty boys,"

"Only you, Buck."

Snow was slippery. James learned that as he surged against Steve, grabbing two handfuls of coat and slamming their bodies together, boots losing traction and causing them to crash to the ground.

"I like having you underneath me," James commented, trying to ignore the way the slush was seeping through the knees of his pants or that both of his palms were in the snow as they bracketed Steve's head.

It was too dark to see the shade of his face but safe to say, it was a delightful shade of pink.

"You're a shameless creature," he said, trying halfheartedly to get up from the ground, attempts halted as James leaned down on him, pressing their bodies together.

"Shameless enough to suck your cock in the middle of the woods, yes," Steve let out a noise like he had been punched, curling a vicious grin on Bucky's lip. "And definitely enough of a creature to love  _ every  _ second of it,"

* * *

James had laid on a lot more comfortable surfaces than a pile of quilts on the bottom of a covered wagon, but he wasn't really focused on that right now.

It hadn't been quite cold enough for the snow to freeze into anything other than slush, so when they had landed on the ground, it had left them less than dry.

_ How long _ they stayed on the ground after they had fallen was between them and the pine trees.

"If Thor starts crying, I'm jumping in the river," Steve panted against James' sweaty neck, and the other man laughed breathlessly.

The rest of the night, and why lie, part of the morning, was a tangle of limbs and teeth, blunt fingernails dragging harmlessly over sweat slickened skin, gasped names and promises uttered with foreheads pressed together.

The sun illuminated the canvas of the wagon; visible frost patterns stretched across the fabric. Bucky was warm where he laid, tucked under blankets with Steve wrapped around his waist, whose skin was so hot it rivaled the embers of a fire.

Steve snored against his chest, mouth open and drooling a little with his face smushed against the burnt twisted skin of his pectoral muscle. He liked the noise, the way Steve vibrated with the force of it, how the blond giant felt safe enough in his hold that he could sleep like a kid.

James ran his fingers over the wide expanse of his shoulders, feeling the smooth muscle resting under warm skin and remember how  _ trusting _ the man had been the night before, working seamlessly around the demons that lived in James' head, acting without hesitation and guiding Bucky on top of him.

James' heart hiccuped as he thought, tears burning the backs of his eyes, couldn't wish for anyone more but the man drooling on him.

Bucky wondered if Natasha had mentioned how he couldn't be trapped under someone else, how a body hovering over him wasn't something that he could handle, even when he knew it was Steve.

But as James thought about it, he  _ knew _ that it had just been Steve being Steve, entirely incapable of acting without immense kindness.

And it wasn't like he had sacrificed much for Bucky's sake if he remembered the night correctly, and he did, if the look on his face or sharp panting were anything to go by. The only thing he had to brave was Clint when they got home because Clint would notice, and there would be endless teasing.

"D'you make any coffee yet?" Steve slurred against his chest, slowly blinking open his eyes.

"What's wrong?" his tone changed so quickly that it caught James off guard, and he looked around to find the problem, and then realized that he was crying.

"You told me you loved me last night, after we," he blurted before he could stop himself, the rest of the sentence unnecessary.

Steve blinked at him, not awake enough to process what was happening.

He waited for a shred of regret to pass over his face, for  _ any _ sign that he didn't mean it.

"I did," Steve agreed, rolling his considerable self so he could rest on his elbows.

Bucky gnawed on his lips, wishing he hadn't brought it up.

Steve caught on to what was happening even though he had just woken up, hair wilder than James had ever seen (he could take credit for it, too). 

"James?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

All the air left his body like he had been gut-punched. There were a lot of responses that wanted to leave his mouth first, the bad part of his brain that he made with peace never fully going away, screamed  _ why? You won't want to when you learn all of the secrets. We've already fucked; you don't have to lie to get me in bed. _

"I love you too," he said back, even though it was shaky.

"Promise?" Giant blue eyes gazed up at him.

_ Damn you and your beautiful eyes, _ James thought fondly.

"Promise," he said and laughed as Steve pressed scratchy bearded kisses over his ribs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fact that I just knew Steve's full name off the top of my head is not something I'm willing to discuss.  
> How do you all like my solution to Frank's loneliness? Heh? The fact that it's Billy? I would also like to state, for any of you looking for subtext that is NONEXISTENT!!! The relationship between this CHILD and this GROWN ASS MAN is ENTIRELY PLATONIC. 100% without an inkling in any other direction, a father-son relationship. Don't fucking dare come at me with anything else.  
> Happy Holidays/Seasons Greetings/ everything and all of it my friends. I hope all your wishes come true and you feel warm and safe on your holiday.  
> BLACK LIVES MATTER


	34. The end.

James couldn't help but holler as hard-packed snow slipped down the neck of his coat.

Peggy giggled from behind him, trying with all her might to run through the snow, tiny body tipping over after one step and tumbling in the two and a half feet of powder.

Fat flakes poured from the sky, adding to the white blanket that had firmly tucked the land in for the winter.

James' cheeks were rosy, he could feel them, and maybe it had something to do with the cold or the way that Steve kissed him for 'eating snow like a kid.'

It probably wasn't the best idea for the two of them to engage in a snowball war, considering that they were expert marksmen and had a competitive streak as long as the Mississippi. Still, neither of those variants came to their mind as they hurled snowballs at each other, calling out taunts and teasing.

James was bundled in his winter gear, Sharon's husband's coat, a new scarf, hat, and mittens knitted courtesy of Ana and Wanda for Christmas. They were warm and kept him dry, except now that he was purposefully scooping handfuls of snow and whipping them across the yard.

Some things couldn't be helped.

Laughter rang out in the muffled air, caught up in the snowflakes and absorbed in the drifts, the sound ready to keep them warm till spring.

* * *

The three of them plus Peter and Ned laid in a tangled pile on the rug in front of the fire, listening to their coats spit and fizzle as they dripped on the logs.

Three thick quilts were draped over the men's shoulders, a snoring girl sprawled out in their laps, a rabbit tucked under the chin of an oversized dozing puppy that was pressed against Steve's side.

Peggy's hair was soft between his fingers as he combed it out, one of her feet stuck in the gaps of Steve's shirt, straining the buttons, the other bent at an inhuman angle across his thigh.

She snored with her mouth open, just like her uncle, and Bucky grinned at the comparison.

A log popped and resettled in the fire, a burst of sparks flying up the chimney.

Steve was looking at James in that soft way that he would have called weakness, once upon a different life, would have called it a liability to allow the touch he was curled into; the child in his arms would have been an unwanted burden.

Gently, careful and slow and perfectly, he kissed Steve. He tasted like the sweet peppermint tea they had been sipping while they warmed up, and he smelled like the sharp crispness of outside. Bucky wanted to inhale him into his lungs and keep him there.

Steve understood the pleading look in his eyes; he must have felt the way that James' heart was going to grow so big in his chest that it was coming up his throat.

He pressed their foreheads together, sliding closer so he could get his arm around James.

This was something he never thought he'd get, never thought he'd deserve it.

And now, he couldn't help but feel triumphant. He got it. He  _ earned  _ it. Blood, broken bones, and burns, all sacrifices to get him to this place, this moment. This warm, loving moment under itchy blankets and a stinky dog taking up half the floor and a toddler's elbow jabbing into his stomach and Steve's beard rubbing against the side of his face as he breathed.

It was worth it. 

Every second of being lost and broken was worth being found and healed.

James' eyes fluttered shut as he leaned closer into Steve, allowing himself to believe that it was all going to be there in the morning.

And it was.

The night was dark, and the snow was falling in tranquil sheets, the flickering fire the only light in the house.

James had never been warmer.

♥️

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are going to entirely ignore the fact that the American Civil War happens in a few years.  
> This is the end, my loves.  
> Remember to be kind, and that you deserve love, and that life is precious, and we must fight for it.  
> It's been a dream writing for you.


End file.
